


Just a Fan for the Fics: Hockey Drabbles

by Fanforthefics (StormDancer)



Series: Hockey Tumblr Oneshots [19]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-08-26 14:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 68
Words: 93,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16683364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/Fanforthefics
Summary: A collection of fics, drabbles, and oneshots cross-posted from Tumblr. From dystopias to dogwalking to space, it's all here!





	1. Sid/Geno: things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

**Author's Note:**

> Because this collection is made of fics written for Tumblr prompts, they are: 1) unbetaed, 2) of varying length, quality, and completion of story, and 3) not likely to be updated with any regularity. 
> 
> Don't know, don't own, etc.

“I don’t know, I think he has a lot to learn,” Geno hears, as he’s on his way out of the rink. He’s in the hallways he doesn’t enter in often, the ones near the front office–he’d been in a meeting with Dan, which is a part of being captain and not necessarily one he likes. He loves hockey. He’s fine with the team. It’s the other shit that he doesn’t like. Like walking behind two guys who are talking without caring who’s behind them. “Malkin’s great, yeah, but did you see his boardwork last game? He’s been focusing too much on–” 

Geno clears his throat. Loudly. 

“His offensive game lately,” the guys continues. His Canadian accent is strong. “He needs to–”

“Excuse me,” Geno cuts in. He’s not going to just stand here and listen to this bullshit. 

The two men turn. The one who wasn’t talking makes a shocked face, his eyes wide, and glances at his companion. The other guy–short but stocky, built like a tank, like a hockey player–goes a little red, but he meets Geno’s eyes. He’s in a suit that’s decently tailored, if boring, but it looks like it’s rebelling against the breadth of his shoulders. He’s got a nice enough face too, big eyes and a strong jaw that’s set stubbornly. Geno knows his type. The type of guy that thinks they can talk about hockey because they believe that would have made it, even though they’ve never held a stick in their life. A suit. 

“Sorry, are we blocking your way?” the guy asks. He sounds sincere about it too, polite. 

“What I need to do?” Geno demands. “If my boardwork so bad.” He gives the suit his most intimidating glare, crossing his arms over his chest, looming more than a little. He’s been having a few bad games. So what. He’d like to see the suit do any better. 

“Sid,” the other guy mutters. But the first guy–Sid–lifts his chin. His eyes are glinting, with a challenge and with something else, something devastatingly intent. 

Geno meets the challenge with his own gaze. What’s this guy going to tell him that he doesn’t already know? Suits don’t know anything. 

“Well,” Sid says–and proceeds to take apart Geno’s game in minute, excruciating detail, from his skates to his stick. He doesn’t sound malicious about it. He just sounds like–like these are the facts, every bit of Geno’s game he’s ever been unsure about, every bit he’s ever known he’s weaker on, it’s all laid out there in front of him, in a stupid Canadian accent from a guy in a suit who probably can’t even play, who thinks all this shit is easy, thinks that he can do all the things he’s calmly telling Geno he should be doing better. 

“You wrong,” Geno sputters, as Sid takes a breath. he doesn’t seem to be slowing down. The guy next to him looks like he’s about to facepalm. 

“I’m not,” Sid replies. Confident. Sure. If Geno were on the ice, he’d check him. As it is–he wants to prove him wrong. Wants to take all of his words and shove them back into his mouth. 

“What do you know?” he demands. “You just–suit.” 

Sid’s eyes flash, and he draws himself up too. He’s not easy anymore. “Am I wrong?” he asks, sharp as a whip. Not backing down. It’s been a long time, since someone pushed back against Geno like this. He’s the fucking captain here. Who’s this guy? 

“You think you can do all this?” he spits. He takes a step forward. 

Sid doesn’t move. “Am I wrong?” he repeats, his head tilted up, steady and unmovable as a wall, and Geno–

Fuck it, he has better places to be than to hear his hockey criticized by some random suit. “I’m going,” he says, and pushes past the two guys. “Nice to meet.” 

“Let me know if you want to work on any of that!” Sid calls after him, and he doesn’t even sound smug. Geno hates him. What the fuck did that guy know? Just because–he might have been right, but that didn’t mean anything. 

///

Geno goes home, makes himself lunch. Doesn’t think about it. Works out. Goes to sleep. Doesn’t think about it. 

There’s a game the next day. He doesn’t think about that guy, but he thinks about–about his fucking offensive game, and all the shit he’d said, and the advice he’d given, like he knew, and–

And the puck goes in for the first time in weeks, a neat goal right past the goalie’s blocker. 

///

Geno can take a hint. He goes back to the front office. It only takes a little poking around until he finds the right office–Sidney Crosby, it says on the door. No title. Geno doesn’t know what he does, other than critique Geno’s hockey. 

He knocks, then hears, “Come in!” and pushes the door open. 

Crosby’s sitting at his desk, his suit jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. Geno’s eyes skate only for a second over the muscles of his forearms before they’re back up to his eyes, which are watching him, his face blank. 

“You had a good game today,” he says, like a greeting. Bland, though. Like he’s in front of cameras. “Broke your streak.” 

“Yeah,” Geno says, and sits down in the chair across the desk. “You say I need to push more, I do. What else i do?” 

Crosby’s eyebrows go up. “You really want to know?” 

Geno takes a breath, but–he’s a professional. He wants to know. He wants to win. “Yes,” he says, and tries to make himself believe it. 

Crosby smiles, and pulls out an Ipad. “Okay. Come here, I want to show you tape,” he says, and then he starts. 

 In the next hour, Geno learns a few things. First, that Crosby never stops talking. Second, that Crosby is a bigger hockey nerd than anyone Geno’s ever seen, and has better hockey sense than anyone other than maybe Mario. Third, Crosby’s really attractive when he’s worked up over hockey. 

Finally, “Oh shit,” Crosby says, as his phone beeps. “I’ve got a meeting with Jim, I’ve got to run.” 

“But we not done!” Geno protests. They’ve barely gotten halfway through the game. 

Crosby laughs, but he looks as intent as Geno. More so. “I’ve got a real job to do, though.” 

“We pick up later,” Geno decides. Crosby shrugs, but he’s smiling. 

“For sure,” he says, and shuts off the ipad. 

“You get on ice?” Geno asks. “Show me there, too?” 

Crosby smiles again, and this time it’s a faceoff smile. “I can show you up there too, yeah,” he retorts, and Geno can’t do anything but grin at him as he leaves. Fine. Maybe he doesn’t hate him. he doesn’t think he could hate anyone who loves hockey that much. 

He’s still a suit, though. Theoretical knowledge and hockey sense doesn’t mean he can skate. Geno’ll have to show him up a little there. 

///

Crosby bats the puck in out of the air, and Geno gapes, and Crosby laughs delightedly, the sound ringing through the empty rink. 

“Why you just a suit?” Geno demands, taking the puck back from him. “Why you not play?” 

Crosby shrugs. “I got hurt, as a kid. I can’t stay on the ice for a full game.” Then he looks at the goal, and Geno knows the longing in that look. The way it’s his whole world. It’s been Geno’s whole world too, for so long. “That didn’t mean I couldn’t be the best at something, though.” He says it like a fact. Geno likes it, his confidence. It’s not even arrogance, in his mouth; it’s just true. Or he’ll make it true. 

///

Geno likes a lot of things about Crosby. Likes how he moves on the ice. Likes how he pushes back against Geno. Likes how he works Geno until he gets it, unrelenting. Likes how he smiles. How he laughs. How he talks about hockey. 

“Geno was on fire tonight, wasn’t he?” Sid asks his friend, as Geno wanders through the front halls, tying to tell himself he isn’t going to find Sid. “His hockey’s gorgeous.” 

“His hockey?” his friends asks, pointed. 

“Did you see his edgework?” Sid asks, like he didn’t get the innuendo, and Geno rounds the corner to see them talking, Sid’s hands waving as he illustrates, bright and lit up and praising and critiquing Geno’s hockey in turn, and there’s a part of him–small, he thinks, but getting bigger–that wonders if he can get Sid to look like that outside of hockey. 


	2. Sid/Geno: things you said through a closed door

Sid’s bored. 

That’s worth stating again, because he really is. He hates being injured, and he especially hates it when they’re on the right side of the law, because that means Geno insists on them going to a hospital instead of just letting Flower stitch him up and then them hanging out at Gonch’s until he’s okay again. 

But no, the FBI weren’t looking for them this time, and so Geno had put his foot down, and Sid–well, Sid had been pretty literally gutted, so he really didn’t have a lot of concentration left to argue.  

But now here he was, stuck in a hospital bed, an IV in his arm, and a fake name on his chart that was making Sid more and more nervous the longer he was there. Duper did wonders with their IDs, but they weren’t meant to stand up to more than a quick bluff of local law to get what they needed for a hunt. If someone started asking questions, they would turn up a whole lot of nothing pretty quickly. Or, more worryingly, a whole lot of something. 

And all of that is easier to worry about than the other thing. 

“Good, you not run yet,” Geno says, pushing open the door. He’s got Sid’s favorite candy, probably more as a peace offering for bringing him to the hospital than anything else. 

“It won’t be much longer,” Sid warns, which Geno knows. After ten years of hunting together, he knows the limits of Sid’s patience. 

“Longer already than I’m expect,” Geno admits. He puts his haul down on the table next to Sid, then leans over to start to fuss with the sheets of the bed. “Two whole days. You getting mellow, in old age.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Or maybe hospital right idea,” Geno keeps going, smug. “If you so weak, can’t get out of bed.” 

“I’m not weak,” Sid snaps, starting to get up–then Geno’s hand is on his chest, pushing him back down, big and inexorable, and Sid can’t fight it. “I’m  _not_ ,” Sid insists. He’s not weak. He can’t be weak. When Sid is weak–when Sid lets his weakness out–bad things happen. The world ends. 

“I know,” Geno tells him. Gentle. Geno’s always gentle with Sid, even when he shouldn’t be. Even when it could doom everyone. Sid wishes he hated it more. “Not weak, but should still stay.” 

“You know we can’t, G.” 

“Just one more day. Until you little bit better,” Geno bargains, wheedling. He’s stopped smoothing out the sheets, and is just hovering now. Sid must have really scared him; it’s not like either of them isn’t used to blood and the normal injuries demon hunters get. It doesn’t usually get this level of fussing. “Then we go to Gonch.” 

“I’m not going to break if I stand up.” 

“You stabbed!” 

“I’ve been through worse.” 

“That not a good thing!” Geno growls, and turns to stalk away. Sid watches him–the familiar sight of his back, those broad shoulders and narrow hips. Sid remembers when he was barely more than a boy, when they were both stumbling through hunting ghosts. How things have changed. It’s there in the set of Geno’s shoulders; it’s there in the thing in Sid’s blood that he has to control. It’s there in the scars on Geno’s back, that Sid knows too well, after years of living in each other’s pockets, in motel rooms and Gonch’s house and Tanger’s bar and the car as they drive across the country. 

“Come on, G. It was just a–”

“Not just anything,” Geno spits, spinning. “You stabbed. You stab  _yourself_ , Sid.” 

“It was the only way–”

“Yes, I know, you possessed, only way to get out, you say.” Geno shakes his head. He doesn’t look less angry. “Still stabbed. Still–you almost die!” 

“Not the first time for that, either,” Sid points out. 

“That not a good thing!” Geno yells, and then remembers where he is, and takes a breath. “Sid–” he starts, then stops. 

Sid knows what’s in his look. It’s not a secret, really. They both know it. They just don’t talk about it. Not unless Sid’s dying on the other side of a door, apparently. 

“I really am fine,” Sid says, quiet. An olive branch. 

“This time,” Geno mutters, but he throws himself into the chair next to Sid. “And just because–” He stops. Glares at his hands. 

Sid raises his eyebrows. “Are we going to talk about it now?” he asks. Geno sets his jaw, and keeps staring. “Geno–” 

“No,” Geno snaps. 

“We’re going to have to talk about it.” 

“No.” 

“Geno–” 

“No,” Geno says a third time, and his boots stomp heavily on the floor. “We’re not talk about it, because nothing to talk about. You fine. You here.“

“This time.” 

“Every time.” 

“Eat your candy, Sid.” Geno throws a pack of M&Ms at Sid. “Eat, then sleep.” 

Sid swallows. “What if–” 

Geno’s scowl unbends into a smile, and he reaches out, runs a hand over Sid’s forehead. “Sleep, Sid.” He says. “I keep watch.” 

Sid has trusted Geno for over a decade, has trusted his six to him against ghosts and demons and angels and shapeshifters and every sort of evil there is. There’s no one he trusts more than Geno. 

He sleeps. 

///

Sid finally wears Geno down the next day enough that he concedes Sid can sign himself out. He mutters to himself in angry Russian as he helps Sid out of the hospital and into the backseat of the car, laying him out carefully. It’s easier to go along with Geno when he gets like this, so Sid lets him fuss and prop Sid up with their spare flannels and jackets and whatever else they have–Sid thinks that some of his spellbooks might be mixed into it, he’s not sure. He doesn’t ask. 

Instead, he waits, and doesn’t even complain much when Geno plays his shitty music as they start the drive to Gonch’s house. Normally it’d be a two day drive, but they’re not in a hurry and it probably is better for Sid’s wound not to sleep too much in the car. Geno doesn’t want Sid to hurt, and Sid’s not big on hurting either–and he doesn’t want to risk what could happen, if he hurts too much. 

So they stop at a motel, and get the odd looks they always get, because they stopped trying to say they were brothers years ago when that got them even odder looks, but also people do tend to look askance at two grown men with scars on their arms and–whatever normal people see in their eyes–sharing a room. But there’s nothing they can do about that, and the motels they stay at don’t train people to ask questions, so they check in and head to their room. 

They have this routine down, even when Sid’s injured and Geno insists on carrying everything; they drop their shit and Sid starts to unpack their guns to check them while Geno goes to get food. 

Sometimes Geno makes Sid go get food, but Sid likes the routine of checking the guns. It’s the same motion every day, that he’s been doing since he can remember–since the first time his dad sat him down and told him about the monsters hiding under everyone’s beds, and hiding under Sid’s most of all. It’s muscle memory, by now–how his hands and arms move, how his muscles stretch and contract. He can feel it. It makes him feel like him again, when he can still feel the ghost in his bones. When he can feel the danger beneath it, in his blood. 

So he cleans the guns. When that’s done, he does it again, just because. It’s something to do, while he thinks. 

When that’s done, Geno’s back. They eat their burgers in comfortable silence, though Geno’s glared Sid onto his back in the bed rather than eating it like a normal person. Sid’s not that hurt anymore; he could sit up. He doesn’t say that, though. A normal person would still be hurt. 

Still, he’s ravenous, so he scarfs down the burger, then throws the wrapper into the trash. Geno whoops when he gets it in, and Sid can’t help but grin at him. Geno grins back. It’s so easy. It’s every day for the past ten years. It’s more than Sid ever dreamed he could have, when he was thirteen and going on his first hunt–a partner he trusted more than anything, a job he was damn good at, the freedom of the road. A partner who smiled at him like–like something Sid couldn’t have. 

That must show in his face, because Geno’s smile fades. “No.” 

“We have to,” Sid tells him. “G–you can’t do that.” 

“Can’t do what? Save you?” Geno still looks mutinous, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s not going to leave Sid alone when he’s injured. 

“I heard what you said, when the ghost locked you out.” Geno’s still scowling. “G–did you mean it?” 

Geno looks up. His eyes are flashing, dark and deep. “What do you think?” he demands, and Sid swallows. This is the thing they don’t talk about. Once, maybe, they might have–but then the thing that lived in Sid’s blood awoke, and Sid couldn’t. Not when every day there was the risk he could do the wrong thing, and the apocalypse could fall. 

“You know, someday–I might lose control for real.” Sid meets Geno’s gaze, though his hands are curling into fists, his nails digging into his skin. “If that happens–if it corrupts me–you’ll need to–” 

“No.” Geno’s on his feet. He’s towering over Sid, who’s still lying in the bed, but that doesn’t matter. “No. I won’t.” 

“You’ll have to.” Sid sounds bleak, feels it. “No one else could.” 

“I can’t.” In a second, Geno drops to his knees next to the bed. Sid had expected rage, stubbornness–he hadn’t expected the gentle way Geno takes his hand. Hadn’t expected how that would break his heart. “Sid–if you think I’m not beside you, no matter who you are–” 

“Even if I’ve been corrupted?” Sid chokes out. He should pull his hand away. He can’t. 

“Where you go, I go,” Geno says, like he says water is wet. Like the sun’s in the sky. Like a vow. 

“And if I’m not me anymore?” Sid asks. He can see it, so well. Has nightmares about it, that might very well be premonitions–of the thing in him creeping out, little by little, until it had Sid’s face and his hands and his voice, but the things he did with them…

“Where you go,” Geno repeats. His thumb runs across Sid’s hand. The thing they don’t name is bright in his eyes, in his mouth, in everything he is, and god, Sid  _wants_. Wishes he was a normal man, who could take the devotion that was offered. Who could offer it in return. Wishes he was stronger, that he could be mad about the devotion, could reject it and send Geno away, where he’d be safe–or get him mad enough that, if the worst happened, he’d do what needed to be done. 

But he’s neither of those things. Instead, he flips his hand in Geno’s, so their fingers can interlace. Geno’s eyes drop to the places between their fingers, but Sid’s still looking at his face. “I’ll try not to go where you can’t, then,” he promises. Another promise, to hold himself back. “But–” Geno lifts his head, raises his eyebrows. “If I do…” 

Geno shakes his head. There’s an almost wry smile on his face, like he thinks it’s silly Sid’s even saying that. “No,” he says, and lets his head drop so that his forehead is against Sid’s hand. Sid looks down at his bowed head, at the trust in the bared back of his neck and the loyalty in every fiber of his being. He can’t imagine him dragged into the dark. 

He won’t let him, Sid decides, then and there. He won’t let the dark take Geno. And if that means not letting the dark take him–that’s what he’ll do. 

///

_“Sid!” The furniture hits the wall, and Sid gets a single look at Geno’s panicked face over the barrel of his shotgun before the ghost slams the door shut and suddenly Sid’s body isn’t his anymore._

_He can feel the ghost, feel it spreading through his muscles. Most people might have been gone immediately. But Sid isn’t most people, and he knows what it feels like, to have something else beneath your skin._

_“Sid!” Geno yells again, through the door. Something bangs against it–his gun. The ghost wants to take Sid’s gun, and shoot through the door. To take the knife at Sid’s belt, and drive it into Geno’s neck. No, Sid thinks. No.  
_

_“No!” Geno’s screaming. “No, you can’t–have to be okay, can’t do this without you!”  
_

_The ghost is straining in Sid. It would be so easy, to just let go. To let the ghost take over. To stop fighting. Sid’s been fighting every day of his life. Fighting the monsters. Fighting himself, and the demon inside of him. He could let go._

_“I need you!” The door bangs again, harder. With Geno’s full weight. “Don’t make me–have to fight it, Sid. Won’t be able to kill you, don’t let it take you, I need you–”_

_The ghost can hear Geno, laughs triumphantly in Sid’s mind and in Sid’s mouth. It’s going to kill Geno. Now that it knows Geno won’t fight back. Sid could just give in, and everything could stop. Sid could rest._

_It’s going to kill Geno, Sid thinks, and then–No._

_A normal person can’t fight a ghost’s possession._

_Sid isn’t a normal person. He’s not a demon, he’s not what he could be. But it’s enough, and then the knife is in his hand and it’s in his gut and he falls to the floor as the ghost flees his dying body and the door bangs open. then there’s a shotgun blast and Sid’s eyes are closing and the blood is rushing in his ears and he could be whole again if he just let go and hands are on his face and “Sid no no no Sid you going to a hospital no will be okay” and good, Sid thinks, as he slips into unconsciousness. Geno’s safe._


	3. Tyler/Jamie: things you interrupted me to say

The bar’s mostly empty when the door bangs open. It’s not surprising–it’s barely noon on a Sunday, and they’re not the brunching sort of bar. There’s a single old dude in the corner sipping a beer and watching the game on TV, but other than that, Sunday mornings are always chill shifts. Jamie’s not saying he always get scheduled for them so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone, but none of management has ever actually denied it. It’s probably a good call anyway. 

All that means that Jamie’s alone at the bar, and mostly messing around on his phone and trying to justify not just getting some reading done for class when the door bangs open. The old guy in the corner doesn’t move, but Jamie almost drops his phone–he’s not supposed to have it out–and straightens up as the guy comes rushing in. 

“Hi.” The guy leans on the bar in front of him. He’s hot, even with the ‘just rolled out of bed after a night out’ look that he’s rocking–all muscle, with a carefully groomed beard and dark hair and brown eyes that look like they’re about to laugh, even harried as he is. “Hey.” 

“Can I get you something?” Jamie asks. He looks familiar, and not just in the ‘all hot guys sort of look alike’ way. 

“I certainly hope so,” he replies, with a smirk and a leer that almost seems reflexive. “Here’s the thing. I was in here last night. And at some point after I left my house in the morning yesterday and when I woke up this morning, i lost my license, so I’m retracing my steps, and–”

Right, that’s why he looks familiar. “I have it,” Jamie interrupts, and the guy’s eyes go wide. Jamie can see why he didn’t recognize him before. Out of context, off the ice and away from his helmet, he looks different. You don’t really expect people you only see on TV to come into your bar. 

“Seriously?” 

Jamie turns back to the bar, opens up the cash register. There, right where he left it last night after someone handed it to him from where they found it on the floor, is Tyler Seguin’s license. It’s not a great picture of him, but it’s clearly him. 

“Here you go.” He turns again, hands it to the guy–Tyler. 

“Holy shit.” Tyler takes it, stares at it. He honestly looks like he might cry. “You are–fucking hell.” 

“Someone gave it to us last night,” Jamie explains. Tyler’s staring at him like he’s amazing. He just stored it for the night. Maybe he would have put it in the mail. It’s not like he did anything. “I guess it was on the floor?” 

“Sounds about right,” Tyler agrees. “Do you like–you are my savior, holy shit. I was going to have to jump through so many fucking hoops, and I wasn’t going to be able to fly home, and–like, wow. This is just.”  Jamie’s squirming under all this praise, definitely. 

“I didn’t do anything.” 

“Do you have any dragons?” he asks, laughing a little at himself and ignoring Jamie. “Because I’ll go slay them. Right now. No questions asked.” 

“Unless you can slay my final paper, I don’t think so?” 

“Final paper?” Tyler hums. He slips his license carefully back into his wallet, then tilts his head, looking at Jamie. Jamie’s not sure he’s ever had a guy that attractive look at him that intently. He’s not bad looking, he’s just not–well, Tyler Seguin. “You don’t look like a college boy.” 

“Grad school,” Jamie explains, and Tyler’s grin flashes again. 

“Oh good,” he says, without explanation. “So, would it be super weird of me to tip you like $100 without buying anything?” 

“Yes.” Jamie makes a motion like he’s going to grab something back, though he doesn’t know what. Something to stop that big a tip. “Seriously, man. I just work here. I didn’t do anything worth a hundred dollars.” 

“You’d be surprised what people do,” Tyler says, and there’s something weary about that. Jamie doesn’t like, obsessively follow him or anything, but he knows a little about his life. He wonders just what experiences he’s had, that make him assume that someone who got a hold of his driver’s license would do shitty things with it. 

“I’m just being a decent human being.” 

“And those are rare,” Tyler retorts. “So, do you want–like, do you like hockey? I can get–”

“You don’t have to pay me,” Jamie tells him, feeling his temper turn over. At Tyler, and at whoever made him think that he had to bribe people into being decent. “And anyway, you gave a huge tip last night, that was enough.” 

“Were you here last night?” Tyler asks, leaning in. He braces his arms on the bar, in a way that makes the muscles of his forearms stands out. “I don’t remember you.” 

Jamie shakes his head. He’s been here late, just as Seguin, to hear Jordie tell the story, had just left. “Not til after you left. But my brother was, so he got the tip.” 

“So I didn’t tip you.” 

“You tipped the household.” Jamie pauses, but then has to add. “Wait, if you went other places after here, and you didn’t have your license, how did you get in?” 

Tyler laughs, louder than that comment deserved. “That is a very good question that I will ask some teammates,” he says. then pauses. “Um, I mean–” 

“I know who you are,” Jamie interrupts. Tyler grins, clearly pleased. “Nice hatty. You deserved to celebrate. Just also you should keep track of your license. Or your friends should make sure you do,” he adds darkly. Tyler needs better friends if they’re letting him leave his license places.  

“Ay ay, captain.” Tyler salutes jauntily. “Wait, no, I do remember you! You were throwing that guy out of the bar as we were leaving. You used that voice on him too.” 

“Oh. Um.” Jamie had thrown someone out last night, sure. He wasn’t technically the bouncer, but he was big and intimidating and he wasn’t going to just sit there when some guy dropped something in a girl’s drink. “I guess, if you were still there?” 

“I was. Apparently.” Tyler’s eying him now, and that look from before is back in his eyes, like Jamie’s important. Like he did more than anyone would do. “Do you just around like, doing good deeds all the time?” 

“It wasn’t a good deed. I’m a bartender. I can’t have people doing–that–in my bar.” 

“Uh-huh.” Tyler’s smiling again, and there’s a glint in his eyes. “So you won’t take my money, or my tickets.” 

“I told you, I don’t need a payoff–”

“How about dinner to go with the tickets?” 

Jamie’s eyebrows go up. He knows he looks like a deer in headlights–this always happens, when he’s surprised. Tyler’s smiling like he’s amused by it. “What?” 

“Dinner. Me, you. My license. It’ll be a cozy threesome.” 

“You’re…” 

“Asking you out, yeah.” Tyler licks his lips. It’s impossible not to watch them. 

Jamie swallows. “Couldn’t that be really bad for you? If I said something.” 

“Maybe.” Tyler shrugs. “But like, I’m pretty sure you’re my new knight in shining armor, so–yeah, I can pay for my license with a date.” 

Jamie freezes. “I’m not–”

“It’s not like,  _paying_ you.” Tyler eases forward. People always call him magnetic, when they talk about him; Jamie can see how. He’s caught, completely. “Just, you know. Sometimes the universe makes you lose your license then gives it back to you via a hot bartender who probably saves kittens in their free time.” Jamie goes red, and Tyler crows. “Holy shit, have you?” 

“No, and don’t listen to my brother if he says otherwise,” Jamie mutters. It had been more of a cat. And also, Jamie just happened to be in that place at the same time. “But like–I’m not, you know, a hero, or whatever. Ask anyone. I’m–”

“Yeah, and I’m charming, but I’m needy and flaky and I come with a shitton of baggage, but I’m hot enough to make up for it.” Tyler grins. he definitely knows how he’s standing makes him look, what it does to his shoulders and abs and ass. He’s so hot. And he seems to find Jamie funny, and he’s–usually talking with people isn’t this easy, but it is with him. “You still up for–”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, before Tyler’s even finished. Tyler laughs again, not unkind. 

“Sick,” he says, cheeks just a little red. “I can–here, give me your phone.” Jamie hands over his phone, and then Tyler messes with it for a few seconds. It’s open to a text between him and Segs, with the only message one to Segs that says ‘hot hero bartender grad student.’

“Um. My name’s Jamie,” Jamie says. 

Tyler winks. “Okay. Jamie the hot hero bartender grad student. Dinner? Tonight?” 

“Yeah?” Jamie doesn’t think he has plans. 

“Awesome. I’ll text you.” Tyler pulls out his wallet, then his license. “I feel like I should leave this with you, just in case. Like, security.” 

“Please don’t.” Jamie’s already going to get teased for this like nobody’s business. If he’s even allowed to tell anyone. 

“Fine. Ruin my fun.” Tyler pouts. “Now I’ll just have to trust you to show up.” 

“I will,” Jamie promises. He doesn’t think a lot of people have, for Tyler. But Jamie will. He can. “Tonight?” 

Tyler’s smile is almost shy. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Tonight.” 


	4. Nicke/Ovi : 5+ Headcanons, Miss Marple au (or crime sleuth au)

1) It’s all the cat’s fault. Nicke wants to be very clear about that. 

* * *

 

2) Nicke never really meant to settle in the small town, or not for long, but somehow he started working at the bookstore and never left. He likes the bookstore. It’s quiet and everyone expects him to be a little standoffish and he can just read to his heart’s content and pet the store cat, Slapshot. It’s easy. Simple. Nothing like the complexities of his life before. Which is why he’s more than a little annoyed when Slapshot finds the dead body in the alley behind the bookstore. 

“Seriously?” he asks Slapshot. Slapshot blinks back. 

* * *

 

3) Ovi is the lead-only?-homicide detective in town. He’s come into the bookstore sometimes, because they keep some Russian language books and he likes the ambiance, likes how no one expects him to be on there–the handsome blonde scowling cashier usually looks like he’d rather Ovi not be there at all, to be honest, which Ovi finds more charming than not. So he knows Nicke a little, just from that. So he figures he should be more surprised than he is that rather than being a mess when reporting the gruesomely murdered corpse outside his door, Nicke seems more inconvenienced than anything else. 

* * *

 

4) Nicke thought he was done with this shit. He thought he’d left it all behind when he came to the small town. He reported the body, he did what he had to do, and that should have been that. 

Except then Slapshot escapes again, and somehow Nicke’s at what is apparently where the victim worked, while Ovi is questioning their employer. Ovi’s eyebrows go up when Nicke shows up and starts looking for Slapshot. “What you doing here?” he asks, more confused than as annoyed as he should be at Nicke running into his investigation. It is, Nicke knows, a large breach of protocol. 

“Just getting the cat,” NIcke says. “Don’t mind me.” He gets out the catnip to try to tempt Slapshot out from where he’s hidden under some shelves. 

He doesn’t mean to listen. He really, really, wants nothing to do with this–with murder and death and crime, with the too-charismatic detective and the intelligence hidden behind his noise. But Ovi is loud, and it’s hard not to hear, and Nicke is, in all things, a perfectionist, so, “Have you asked him about the watch?” he asks Ovi in an undertone, as the boss is distracted. 

“Watch?” 

“It was brand new. Way more expensive than anything else he was wearing. Not something he could have bought on this salary, unless he’d just gotten a bonus or something.” 

Ovi’s eyes light up, go sharp. “Good point,” he says, and when the boss comes back in, he asks him about the watch. Nicke tries to tune out. Really, he does. It just…doesn’t work. 

* * *

 

5) “You want take over investigation?” Ovi asks, when Nicke is somehow again at the place the trail is leading him. Nicke snorts and shakes his head. 

“It’s the cat, I swear,” he says. Ovi is not sure he believes him. He’d thought he knew everything about everyone in this town, but there is clearly more than meets the eye with the bookstore worker. He’s got sharp eyes, and an investigator’s instincts, even if he seems to want to deny it. It’s intriguing. As intriguing as his scowls and his wry humor and the one time Ovi caught him laughing at something the kids in the bookstore did, his smile lighting up his face. “But also,” Nicke adds, “You should really look by the river.”

* * *

 

6) Nicke is not working with Ovi on this case. He is simply occasionally present. it has nothing to do with being curious about how this case will turn out. Nothing to do with Ovi’s solid strength and engaging grin and how he seems amused by Nicke’s snark. Nicke is not doing this. He won’t. Not again. 

* * *

 

7) What is Nicke’s secret backstory? I think maybe he was some rising star detective in the big city, until something went wrong–was he framed for corruption? Was he disenchanted with the corruption and injustice of the police? Did he burn out on all the bleakness of life? did he have some sort of mental breakdown because of all the pressure? Did some serial killer become obsessed with him and start killing in his name? Whatever it is, he left and came to the small town, and no one knows about his past, and NIcke’s never wanted to tell anyone. 

Not even Ovi, as much as he’s tempted when they’re chasing down the bad guy and there are gunshots flying and Ovi is trying to chivvy Nicke out of danger as he returns fire, and then Ovi gets a shot off and the bad guy falls, a bullet through his leg. “Good shot,” Nicke says, because it was. 

Ovi grins. “Was, wasn’t it?” he says, and starts reading the perp his Miranda rights. Nicke refuses to be feeling anything. He won’t. He can’t. Not again. 

* * *

 

8) After, Ovi comes and finds Nicke in the bookstore. He looks like he did before this, calm and scowling and bookish. There’s no evidence he watched Ovi shoot someone and simply commented, with the air of someone who knew what they were talking about, on the skill. There’s no sign of the cold eyed angel of justice who’d wrapped the wounded leg in a bandage with mercilessly efficient hands. Just Nicke, the bookstore worker, petting his cat. 

“So,” Ovi says, leaning over the counter. “You more than what you seem, him?” 

Nicke doesn’t blink. “Depends on what you see.” 

It gets a grin out of Ovi. “I’ll find out your secrets,” he says, a threat and a promise. 

Nicke looks up from his book. His gaze is cool, assessing, but behind it there’s warmth and something that Ovi thinks might be fear–warmth Ovi wants to find, fear he wants to chase away. “You’re welcome to try,” he says, and it sounds like a challenge. 

* * *

 

9) Nicke looks at Slapshot, then at the stack of almost-certainly stolen jewelry he’s uncovered outside Nicke’s home. “Seriously?” he asks the cat, who doesn’t reply, and goes to call Ovi. 


	5. Sid/Geno: 5+ Headcanons, babysitting AU

Geno is in a hurry. He’s running late, even for him, and he really wanted to impress Mario Lemieux so he’ll believe that he is responsible and worth investing in which includes being on time. That’s why, when he goes to drop his kids–a boy and a girl, both less than 10–off with the rest of the children at the party, he doesn’t really ask questions of the guy sitting with them. He barely notes him, other than to see that he’s built like he could lift all of the children himself and he’s got pretty eyes. He just drops the kids off, tells them to be good–fat chance; the Malkin children have more energy than anyone, including their father, knows what to do with–and goes. He notes him a little more later, when he gets back and the kids tug him over, telling him excitedly in Russian about how they played floor hockey and Sidney told them a great story and they made awesome lego towers. 

“They good for you?” he asks the guy–Sidney, who laughs. It’s a good laugh, Geno notes, but more, he notes Sidney’s response, which is, 

“Yeah, of course.” Geno’s never met anyone who the kids were good for. He gapes, then pulls out his phone. 

“You regular babysitter?” he asks–demands. “Will hire you. Need nanny, these terrors too much.” 

The guy blinks, then shrugs. “I mean, I’d be happy to watch them, sure,” he says, and gives Geno his number to set it up. Geno and the kids both leave happy–they’ve all finally got a nanny they all like. 

* * *

 

Sidney is not a nanny. Sidney was a guest at the party–the guest of honor, if you want to pick hairs, which Sid really doesn’t. He’s some sort of bigshot doctor, who’s been roped into helping with fundraising for a new wing for the hospital because he’s their new wunderkid. But he also hates parties like that, so he went to hang out with the kids because he likes kids. He said yes to Geno because he likes kids, the Malkin kids were great, their dad looked stressed, and he doesn’t really have time to kill but he’s always getting yelled at to take a break, so maybe this’ll count. 

He continues to say yes for most of the same reasons. He doesn’t have a lot of time, but he makes it work when he can; Malkin’s very understanding, presumably, to Sid, because he gets what Sid’s schedule is like. Or maybe because he’s just understanding; Sid’s gotten to like Geno a lot over the weeks. he likes Geno and the kids and the feeling of the house, which is warm and comforting and lived in in a way that Sid’s always dreamed of his house being. Sid’s house isn’t that warm; he doesn’t have time for it. All his time was at the hospital or in his office. Spending time at the Malkin’s is good enough. And maybe Sid’s stating to get too comfortable there; maybe his gaze is lingering on Geno’s long legs and the brightness of his smile. He can handle that. 

* * *

 

Geno is having a crisis of conscience. Sid’s the best babysitter he’s ever had, and he’s responsible and great with the kids and funny and sweet, but all of that is a problem too, because Geno is definitely starting to manufacture reasons for Sid to come over, and to come over a little earlier so Geno can see him more. 

Except–Geno’s also worried. Sid’s got a really weird schedule, and he always looks exhausted, and some days he comes in looking like he’s a second away from snapping; those are the days he lets the kids attack him and just hugs them and breathes them in, and Geno wants to take whatever’s wearing him thin off his shoulders, except Sid never shares what it is. Geno’s worried it’s not good–that Sid’s doing something to make money that he shouldn’t be. 

So really, it’s the logical thing to do try to start paying Sid more. To maybe leave him extra cash, and make sure he’s fed, and maybe buy him a new jacket too, so Sid won’t have to spend money on it. It’s for Sid’s sake, really. 

* * *

 

Sid is mostly confused by the fact that Geno’s sort of accidentally making him into a sugar baby. He knows Geno makes a lot of money as a businessman and also he’s not really sure what the going babysitting rate is, so that doesn’t worry him, and if Geno wants to get him a jacket he guesses he can, but it’s not like Sid can’t afford it on his own. So he guesses it’s sweet? Like how Geno always seems to be so worried about Sid eating, or how after hard days–days when he loses someone Sid thought he should have saved–he doesn’t say anything when Sid cuddles his kids for longer. Instead, he looks at Sid like maybe he’d like to cuddle Sid too–or maybe Sid’s imagining that. Sid hasn’t had a lot of luck with boyfriends; hasn’t had time for them. So he doesn’t really expect Geno’s looks to turn into anything. 

* * *

 

Then one of the kids gets sick–appendicitis, maybe. It’s not serious, but it does mean that she has to go to the hospital, and Geno after her, fretting and haranguing the doctors and texting Sid to see if he can look after his son, which he can’t. The operation goes well, and Geno’s on the search for jello when–

“Geno?” someone calls, and Geno turns to see Sid, in blue scrubs and ugly yellow crocs, jogging up to him. “What are you doing here?” 

“Alexa had appendicitis removed, I text–what you doing here?” 

“I haven’t had my phone on all shift, sorry!” Sid apologizes. “How’d it go?” 

Somehow, Sid is herding him back towards the room, and Geno’s in a bit of a daze as Sid bosses everyone around and checks her chart and jokes with her and the nurse and also the doctor who comes in to check and then starts teasing (lbr it’s Flower). Sid’s–well, he guesses he shouldn’t be worried. 

* * *

 

Sid laughs very hard when it all comes out. Geno is very sulky. But also not, because now he doesn’t feel guilty about asking Sid out. 

* * *

 

The next one of Mario’s parties, Geno finds Sid with the kids again. “Come on, you not hide all day,” he says, tugging at Sid’s arms even as his kids hold onto the other one. 

“Worried someone might hire me away from you?” Sid jokes, and Geno groans and finishes dragging him away so they can suffer at the party together. 


	6. Taylor/Jordan/Ryan: Bar/Restaurant AU + Green-Eyed Epiphany

It doesn’t happen the first time around–when they were all working at the restaurant during college, making their way through together, eating leftovers in Taylor and Jordan’s shithole of an apartment and doing work in the backroom when they had a chance. Ryan as a bar back trying to find a way to earn his way into something more than what he came from, Taylor waitering trying to prove to his rich family that he could make it on his own, and Jordan stuck in his holding pattern trying to figure out what he wants out of life. Nothing happens then; it’s just three boys from very different lives, coming together as best friends–Taylor pushing them into wild adventures, Ryan there to make the plans to get them to happen, and Jordan to make sure no one died while they did. It’s struggling and hand to mouth and Ryan barely sleeps, but he loves it, and Hallsy and Ebs, fierce but quiet. None of the girlfriends they cycle through can change that. 

And then–Taylor is the first to leave, heading East to the job and life his family offered. “He’s proven he can do this, why would he stick around after?” Jordan says to Ryan once, drunk and sad in the apartment they’d shared, and Ryan hadn’t said anything but a part of him wants to show this picture to Taylor to make him hurt more. He doesn’t, though; it’s the right choice for Taylor, and they all know it. Neither Jordan nor Ryan want to hold him back, even if at the end Taylor had looked like maybe he wanted them to ask–even if Taylor had buried his head in Ryan’s neck in a hug and whispered, “Take care of him for me, yeah?” like Ryan needed asking. 

Then it was just Ryan and Ebs, and it was okay still–not as good, and everything was less fun just the two of them, both of them caught in their heads in a way Taylor wasn’t, but it’s not like Taylor didn’t text, and they were still together. Ryan got promoted to full bartender. Ebs was rising in the ranks of the waiters. But he was getting squirrelly sometimes, and Ryan wasn’t surprised when he came to Ryan, looking torn between apologetic and excited, and told Ryan that he was leaving too–he’d gotten accepted into some sort of grad school out East. And Ryan smiled and wished him well, because what else was he supposed to do? Even if now he was alone. 

Fast forward ten years. Ryan’s still a bartender, but he’s basically running the place now. He and Taylor and Jordan still text sometimes, keep up on Instagram or whatever, and he knows that Taylor and Jordan meet up sometimes, but Ryan’s mainly put that behind him. He can’t dwell on it. They’re all happy now, anyway. Or Ryan thinks he’s happy. He should be happy. He’s making a generous wage, he’s got enough saved to open his own place like he’s dreamed since he was a kid, he’s got friends. Maybe nothing quite lives up to the halcyon days of him and Ebs and Hallsy, but that’s just the nostalgia of youth. 

And then–Ryan’s tending bar. He doesn’t do it that often anymore, spends more time in the back office, but he’s tending bar and helping customers and the door swings open and shut and Ryan doesn’t pay attention to that because he’s making a drink, and then he senses two stools being filled, and there’s a part of him that knows then, he thinks. That has never not been able to sense where they are. 

It’s still a shock to turn and see Hallsy and Ebs on the stools, matching grins on their facts. Bright eyes and Ebs’ gap teeth and Taylor’s dimples and for a second Ryan’s eighteen and they’ve come over to bother him during their break. 

“Hey,” Taylor says, casual. “Service around here sucks, man.” 

Ebs’ smile is more apologetic. “We’ve been waiting here for maybe thirty seconds, Hallsy. Don’t whine.” 

Ryan’s mouth opens and closes. Then again. They’re here. Back here. “Well, I still expect a big tip,” he gets out, and Taylor laughs, loud and free like he always did, and Ryan’s smiling, because he never could resist them. 

It was Taylor’s idea for them to come visit, at one of Taylor and Jordan’s intermittent drinks, Ebs tells Ryan. They both had time or took the time, despite the fact that they have real world lives and jobs that can’t just take time. But they’re working remotely or something. They wanted to come see their old haunts. 

“Well, I’m still here,” Ryan half-laughs. Taylor laughs too, but Ebs’ gaze is too knowing. 

So–Taylor and Jordan stick around, and they fall into each other too. It’s easier than it should be. They’re different people. They have different lives. They’ve changed. Taylor’s not the reckless kid he’d been; Jordan’s louder, more settled in his skin. Ryan must have changed too. And yet–it’s still them, and it’s easy, and they relearn each other. 

And then one night, Ryan’s working the bar and Ebs and Hallsy are hanging out making nuisances of themselves. Ryan leaves them at the bar, goes into the back for something, and when he comes back out–Ebs is still at the bar, checking his phone, but Taylor’s with a girl, both of them leaning in, Taylor giving his half smirk and her hand on his arm, and for a second, Ryan wants to go over and drag Taylor away and hiss that he’s  _his_. 

It hits Ryan like a train truck, but it seems like the most obvious thing in the world. Of course he’s in love with Hallsy, reckless, stubborn, demanding Hallsy with his big eyes and big lips and easy affection. Of course. How could he not be? 

“Nuge,” comes the quiet voice, and Ryan turns, and Ebs is there, a crooked smile on his face. “You okay?” he asks in that way he has, like he understands. This time, his eyes flick to Taylor, then back to Ryan, and Ryan thinks–knows–that he does understand, this time. “He’ll be back,” Ebs says, sure but wistful. “He always comes back.”

And there it is, the second epiphany, hot on the heels of the first. Of course he loves Jordan too, quiet and understanding and inexorable, who gets the things in Ryan’s head he can’t articulate and never falters in his affection. It’s the three of them, how could he not love them both? 

“Yeah,” Ryan gets out, because he doesn’t know what else to say, “I guess. You guys came back.” 

Jordan’s smile flashes. “What else could we do?” he asks, and Ryan smiles, helpless for him just as much as Hallsy. 

And sure enough, a few moments later, Taylor’s back, fitting himself in next to Ebs without hesitation. “Not picking up?” Jordan asks, and if Ryan hadn’t seen Jordan’s crooked smile a second ago, he wouldn’t know there was anything else in it. 

“Nah. Couldn’t abandon Nuge at work here,” Taylor grins, throwing his arm around Jordan. “What would he do without us?” 

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, and he knows it’s too much, and there’s ten years of baggage they lost, but both of their smiles’ light up. 

Except then, as the night goes on, Ebs gets up. “I’ll leave you two to it, then,” he says, and when Taylor frowns, he laughs. “Nuge can entertain you.” 

“But Ebby,” Taylor whines, and Jordan ignores him, flicking a glance over his head at Ryan, almost unreadable except that Ryan and Jordan have always understood each other. 

“Ryan’ll take care of your,” Jordan says, and his smile twists in his face again, crooked and not fake but not real either. Maybe, Ryan starts to think, this won’t be as easy as he thought. 

Cue the angst–Jordan thinks that Taylor and Ryan are in love so he should just set them up and suffer in silence because he’s in love with both of them and he wants them to be happy. Taylor has known since he was twenty that he’s in love with both of them but he’s seen no signs that it’s any less unrequited than it was then (Taylor is also not very observant). Ryan’s not sure how long they’ll stay, knows that they have lives in other places and that he can’t hold them for long. 

It all comes to a head when Ryan finally gets the money and shit together to open his own bar, and Taylor and Jordan throw a congratulations party. They’re all a little tipsy and Taylor finds Ryan in a hallway, tells him how great it is, how proud he is, and Ryan’s grinning because he can’t help it, and he knows Taylor well enough to know when he’s throwing caution to the winds, so he has half a second to brace himself before Taylor kisses him. It tastes like beer and fries and Taylor’s drunk enough that it’s sloppy and Ryan feels it everywhere. 

“Taylor,” Ryan breathes, when they separate. Taylor’s grinning. 

“Ryan,” he says, a statement. And–

a sharp intake of breath, and they both turn to see Jordan standing at the end of the hallway, his eyes huge and dark. “Ebs–” Ryan starts, but Jordan shakes his head. He’s smiling, that crooked half-smile Ryan’s seen too much of. 

“I’m happy for you guys,” he says, too fast and not looking at them. “I really am. Good luck. The bar is great, Nuge, it all is. I’m just going to–I need to–” he shakes his head, and Taylor’s frozen so Ryan can’t disentangle himself before Jordan’s gone. 

“Shit,” He swears, and pushes Taylor away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” 

“Why not?” Taylor demands. “Just because Ebs is being weird–”

“Because you’re going to leave!” Ryan snaps. “Have you guys back has been amazing but you’re going to go back to your lives soon and I’m just going to be here.” 

Taylor blinks at him in confusion. “We aren’t? Ebs can work wherever. I got transferred here like, weeks ago.”

“What?” 

Taylor still looks confused. “Yeah, you didn’t know?” 

“You’re still living in an Airbnb!” 

Taylor shrugs. “We haven’t gotten around to looking for places.” 

For a second time, everything in Ryan is rearranging. They’re staying. They won’t leave him alone again. “You guys are staying?” 

“Yeah.” Taylor smiles. “We weren’t going to let you go.” 

Ryan is as helpless in the face of that smile as ever; he has to kiss Taylor again, and Taylor smiles into it, until–

“Shit,” Ryan says again, pulling back. “Ebs.” 

“If he doesn’t like this, that’s his problem.” Taylor’s voice is fierce but there’s uncertainty beneath it, the uncertainty of more than a decade of wanting his best friend. 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Taylor, Ebs is so in love with you.” Jordan’s staying, he tells himself, and lets himself think the thing he’s kept tightly boxed up. “With us,” he adds, because he’s not stupid and Ebs is more subtle than Taylor but that’s still not very subtle. But then–why did he run?  

“But–Ebs, he–” Taylor’s eyes are widening, and he might not be very observant always, but there’s no one in the world he knows better than Jordan Eberle. “Shit, we have to go.” 

“What?”

“We have to go find him.” Taylor is pushing at Ryan’s shoulder. “He’s going to be an idiot, come on.” 

They do have to find him. Need to close this circle, but when they get out of the hallway, no one’s seen him. 

“Fucking Ebby,” Taylor mutters, and opens the door to his room, and–it’s empty. Well, it’s not empty, but the closet is open and most of Jordan’s clothes are gone and there’s a suitcase-sized hole and Taylor swears again. 

Ryan blinks at it. Jordan–he left. Taylor said they weren’t going to leave, and now Jordan was leaving, and–

“Jordan Eberle, I’m going to kill you,” Taylor says, and for a second Ryan thinks he’s still here, but no, Taylor has his phone out. “Get back here, what the hell are you playing at? You’re making Nuge short circuit, come on bro, don’t be a bitch, pick up your goddamn phone.” Taylor hangs up, then hits call again. “Okay, fuck you, you don’t get to do this. I’m not sorry I kissed Nuge and if you’re–”

Ryan takes the phone from Taylor. “Ebs,” he says, forces it out to the voicemail. “Don’t leave. Please.”  

Then he hangs out, and switches to another app. Jordan’s find my friends icon is moving. “I think–that’s the airport,” he stutters. 

Taylor’s jaw sets. “We’ve got to go.” 

Ryan looks around the house, crowded with his family and friends. “This is for me, I can’t just leave–”

“Ryan.” Taylor’s very serious, more serious than Ryan’s maybe ever seen him. “Do you really want to let Jordan get on that plane?” 

No, Ryan does not, and Taylor’s always known how to give them the push. 

Ryan manages to say something to enough people that it’s okay that he leaves, and then they’re in Ryan’s car on the way to the airport, Taylor driving and Ryan trying to figure out what flight Jordan’s on and tracking where he is. Jordan’s not actually far ahead of them, so they catch him before he goes through security, skidding into the airport and with Taylor nearly tackling him into the ground while Ryan assures Security that no they’re friends it’s fine. 

“What the hell?” Jordan demands, as Taylor catches him around the waist and holds on. 

“What the hell yourself?” Taylor retorts. “Were you seriously just going to get on a plane?” 

“I–” Jordan swallows, and looks past Taylor to Ryan, like he’s willing Ryan to understand. “I really am happy for you. You’re great for each other, and I know how much you love each other. But–I thought I could do it, watch you two, and I will, I just need some time to figure it out.” 

Ryan glances at Taylor, who’s staring at Jordan like a starving man with a feast laid out in front of him. “It’s not what you think.” 

“What? Taylor, did you not–” Jordan shakes his head, half a smile on. “You love each other, whether you said it or not.”

“No, not like that. I mean, yeah, but–it’s you, too.” 

“I’ve been trying to help,” Jordan agrees, “And I’m happy it worked, but–”

“Oh my god, Ebs, stop being dense,” Taylor cuts him off, turns his face with his hand, and kisses him. 

It’s a short kiss, more to make a statement than anything else, but it is still a sight, the two of them together. Ryan doesn’t know where to look first. Doesn’t know what he wants most, other than just them. 

“There,” Taylor says, pulling away. “Nuge?” he prompts, his arm still around Jordan’s waist. 

Ryan steps in. Jordan’s staring at him, confused and with a terrible, quickly drowned hope, and Ryan remembers–those nights after Taylor left, curled together on what had once been his bed, Ryan’s fingers in Ebs’ hair. Had he been in love then? Probably. It didn’t matter. Take care of him, Taylor had told him, and Ryan would, both of them. Forever. 

He leans in, and presses his lips to Jordan’s, trying to put all that into his kiss. 

He pulls back more quickly than Taylor, because they are in a public place, but then he rests his forehead against Jordan’s. “Don’t leave,” he says. Orders. Begs. 

Jordan’s fingers run back through his hair, pushing it away. “Really?” he asks, and the hope on his face is terrible and wonderful. 

“Really,” Taylor says. “Which you would know, if you hadn’t freaked the fuck out and ran away, Ebs, seriously?” 

“I–I was trying to be happy for you.” 

“Good. You can be happy for us in our bed,” Taylor decides, and Ryan snorts and Jordan drops his head to muffle his laughter in Ryan’s collarbone. 

“We should go somewhere that’s not here,” Jordan does point out, lifting his head back up. 

“Somewhere without an audience,” Ryan agrees. “Let’s go.” 

He herds them away, and into his car, and then they’re at Ryan’s place and Taylor doesn’t waste any time pulling Jordan in for another kiss, longer this time, and grabs Ryan with his other hand to tug hims closer. 

“We should talk,” Jordan says, pulling away. Taylor takes that as his cue to kiss Ryan instead, keeping Jordan trapped between them. 

“Later,” Taylor decides, “I’ve waited ten years for this,” and with that, Ryan loses track of everything that’s not the two of them. 

They do talk later–about miscommunication and then and now and the ten years in between, and Ryan falls asleep with Taylor’s head on his shoulder and Jordan’s arm over his stomach, and it’s not that shitty apartment of ten years ago, but Ryan knows here is where he fits. 


	7. Sid/Geno: Neighbour AU + Fake Dating

Oh what, you mean the What’s Your Number AU? 

Sid knows the guy in the apartment next door, though mainly only from smiling at him in the lobby and that one time that the guy’s dog got out and Sid caught him in the hallway and the guy came panting up to him, shirtless, and started scolding the dog in Russian before smiling at Sid again–smiling very big, and very charming. Sid’s met a lot of charming guys in his life. He wasn’t swayed, and they both went on their ways. 

The other thing Sid knows about the guy next door–he has a lot of sex. Very loud sex. Sid knows this because the guy’s bedroom shares a wall with Sid’s living room, and Sid gets home late from work a lot and the guy apparently starts early. 

So the two things Sid knows about the guy next door are that he likes dogs, and that he’s apparently good at sex. Until one day there’s a knock on the door in the morning just after Sid got back from his run and was thinking of going into the office, and he opens his door and the guy is there–shirtless again. Sid is starting to think that he doesn’t own a shirt. 

The guy blinks, and he does a quick up and down of Sid before his gaze settles back on Sid’s face. “Need huge favor,” he says without preamble. “Need you to be my boyfriend.” 

“What?” 

“Need–guy I slept with last night, he not leaving, is very–”

“Crazy?”

“Yes, crazy. So I need you be my boyfriend, come in, make fuss, he leave. Please?” The guy gives Sid big eyes which shouldn’t be as convincing as it is, given that he’s well over six feet tall and vey built. 

Sid sighs, but he’s never been able to resist saving someone in need. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Just let me shower, and–”

“No,” the guy interrupts, and now he’s definitely just eying Sid’s chest, where his sweat-soaked shirt’s gotten a little see through. “No, you perfect like this. Come on.” He herds Sid next door, and Sid lets himself be herded, and they go through the whole rigamarole of Sid pretending to rage–badly, because he’s really a bad actor, but no one’s paying attention to that and Geno’s hamming it up to make up for it–and the other guy leaves, and then Sid’s neighbor–Geno, as he’s found out, leans against the counter, smirking. 

“That work well,” he says. “Pancakes?” And Sid, well. He is hungry. 

So they do this a few more times, and Geno always cooks Sid breakfast after and Sid rolls his eyes and pretends to be annoyed but doesn’t mind it, really. Except then Sid’s latest boyfriend dumps him very politely and very casually, and Sid spirals a little. He’s never going to find love. He’s going to be alone forever. Being Geno’s fake boyfriend is as good as it’s going to get. Geno feeds him ice cream and privately thinks that Sid’s well shot of that guy. 

It is in this mood that Sid finds the article. The one that says that people who have been in relationships with more than 20 people are destined to end up alone (i know that’s not the movie but go with it). And Sid fixates. 

“So what?” Geno asks, when Sid tells him, after scaring some other guy away. “Twenty lots of guys, no one get that high.” He pauses. Sid’s looking at the table. “Really?” 

Sid shrugs. 

“How many?” 

Sid’s smile is a little sheepish. “Um. More than 20?” Then he turns determined, as Geno goes through some mental gymnastics to figure out how Sid–who he’s fond of but is pretty boring–has gone through guys like that. “So I can’t get it any higher. I need to find true love with someone I’ve already dated.” 

“Well, date so many, can’t be hard,” Geno mutters, and Sid throws a biscuit at him. “I’m help, then,” He decides. “Pay back, for pretend boyfriend. Make sure your real boyfriend good for you.” 

So then they set off on their quest, going through Sid’s backlog of boyfriends. Sid deals with his intimacy issues and the priorities he puts on different things in his life, and how maybe what he thinks he wants and what he needs are different things. Geno deals with the fact that he wants to punch every one of Sid’s exes, especially the childhood sweetheart who clearly still adores him and who Sid still loves. None of them deserve Sid, Geno thinks, frequently. None of them are right for him. Why would Sid date any of them  _again_ instead of looking for new prospects–say, next door? 


	8. Nicke/Ovi: Dystopian AU + Bed Sharing

They meet as children, before the Sorting. When they’re running around the streets with the rest of the kids, Sasha bullying them into setting up games and Nicke quietly pushing everyone into place. They’re immediate friends in the way of children, Sasha fascinated with Nicke’s quiet intensity and Nicke with the way Sasha’s noise covers a sharp mind. 

And, in the way of children–they separate. There’s the Sorting, and Sasha goes one way, and Nicke goes another, and Sasha pulls Nicke close into a hug. “I’ll never forget you,” Sasha promises. Nicke holds Sasha tighter. He doesn’t say anything, but he promises to himself. He’ll find Sasha again. Somehow.

Fast forward ten years. Ovi zoomed up through the ranks of the state, is the favored child, loud and boisterous and charming. He throws his charm around and chafes at the fact that he has no real power and pushes it behind more smiles and laughter. 

It’s at a party–glitter and gold and Ovi knows what’s happening on the streets but what can he do about it?–that Ovi sees him, or he thinks he sees him. A flash of blonde hair. It’s not the first time–Ovi thinks about him sometimes, that blonde blue-eyed boy, who’d made everything work in Ovi’s head, but Ovi’s tried to find out where he is and he can’t even do that. If Nicklas Backstrom ever existed, the records don’t show it now. 

But Ovi sees blonde in the shadows, and he goes like a magnet to metal. Through halls and colonnades, just a flick of blonde, until he doesn’t see him anymore and he goes through the door and–and his back’s against a wall and there’s a hand at his throat, and Ovi has never forgotten those eyes. 

“Nicke,” he breathes, and all the coldness melts away into something like the boy he was as Nicke looks back. 

“Sasha,” he says in disbelief, then anything else he says is cut off by the hug that he’s pulled into, totally enveloping, because Ovi can’t imagine letting go.

He doesn’t let go–not when he asks what Nicke’s doing at the party and Nicke just laughs and asks what he’s doing at the party, like he doesn’t know Ovi’s role here; not when the party’s broken up because an important official’s gotten ill and they’re sent home. Ovi drags Nicke back to his apartments and Nicke lets himself be dragged. 

Ovi preens a little, when Nicke comes in, sees the luxury. “So this is how the other half lives,” Nicke says, dragging a finger along an ornate golden carving. 

Ovi shrugs. “This is what they give me.” He doesn’t say the rest of it–the guilt, the things he gives away. 

“It’s a lot more than what they give me,” Nicke says, and Ovi knows he’s joking, but–

“Then stay here,” he says, and Nicke blinks, but Ovi’s always been able to convince him, and Nicke stays. 

He fits back into Ovi’s life–not the public life, but the private one, the one in his apartments, where he flits in and out of them like a cat, with no warning or apparent reason to his comings and goings. And then one night, Ovi comes back from yet another party, and Nicke is standing in the living room, staring out the window at the moon. 

“Nicke?” Ovi asks, and Nicke doesn’t move. He’s shaking, Ovi sees, and there’s something empty in his eyes that Ovi doesn’t like. Ovi reaches out, uncurls Nicke’s fists. “Come on, Nicke,” he murmurs, and draws him away–down the hall, into his room. And he can’t leave Nicke like this, strung out and still shaking and still with those empty eyes, and so what choice does he have but to wrap him in his arms and curl around him in his bed, like he can make it better like that? 

They don’t talk about it in the morning. They don’t talk about it a few weeks later, when Nicke comes to Ovi’s room, and slots himself in next to Ovi, burying his head in Ovi’s neck. They don’t talk about it when Ovi goes to Nicke’s bed, unable to shower off the slime of another party. Ovi’s not an idiot; he’s putting things together despite himself, since that first party, where Nicke never said why he was there and the official died. He doesn’t know why Nicke doesn’t ask–if it’s for the same reason. If neither of them want to hear the answers. 

There’s one night, both of them half asleep, when Nicke mutters into Ovi’s shoulder, “We could leave.” 

Ovi runs his hand down Nicke’s back. Thinks of all the things he’s been given. Thinks of the things he can’t change. Thinks of the children he can give to now. Thinks of Nicke, and the things he’s done. 

“No,” he tells Nicke, sad. “We can’t.” 

Nicke freezes. Looks up. His eyes are hard as he looks at Ovi, and lit with something Ovi can’t quantify–something like how he looked at Ovi before the Sorting. (Ovi doesn’t know the promises Nicke makes. For himself, he wouldn’t make the promise. For Ovi–to stop the defeat in Ovi’s voice, to keep him sane–Nicke will move the world). 

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in, and seals the promise to himself with a kiss. 

Ovi forgets the conversation, in the joy of leaning Nicke’s body after, after so long spent sleeping next to him. Nicke doesn’t forget his promise. 

And one night, much later, Nicke comes to sit on Ovi’s bed. He’s looking at Ovi with bright, almost manic eyes. “Sasha,” he says, the only one to use the old nickname now. “Do you trust me?” 

“Yes,” Ovi says without hesitation, without thinking for an instant of the things Nicke has done. 

“Then come with me.” Nicke stands. He’s dressed for travel, Ovi notes. There’s a bag at his feet. 

“And go where?” Ovi asks. He’s not convinced Nicke’s not joking. 

“Sasha,” Nicke says, holding out a hand. “We can leave.” 

Ovi takes a breath–and takes his hand. 


	9. Sid/Geno: Accidentally Married + Did They or Didn’t They?

Sid and Geno wake up in bed, married. That’s not actually the story. It’s a problem, of course–it could be a scandal–but really in terms of people who hockey players have accidentally married, in the scheme of things, their teammate who has just as big an incentive to keep it quiet and definitely isn’t out for a payout isn’t the worst. They figure they can take the teasing–about both the marriage and the fact that they don’t actually remember anything about the night before–in exchange for it Not Being a Big Deal. 

So they go see the lawyers, expecting it to not be a big deal to just get it annulled, and then then the lawyer asks: “So, did you have sex?” 

Sid and Geno both blink. “I don’t see why that matters,” Sid says testily, because even considering that is bringing up things he’s been trying not to think about for years. 

“Well, if you had sex, you have to get a divorce, not an annulment,” the lawyer explains [is this how the law works? I’m pretty sure not. Do I the author, as a law student, care? No]. “That would have to be more public.” 

And the thing is–well, they don’t remember. It’s not…outside of the realm of possibility. There have been Moments. There have been what might be charitably called ‘close calls’, throughout the years. And they were very drunk that night. So–the answer to that is a hard maybe. 

Cue the Hangover-esque shenanigans as Sid and Geno and assorted teammates have to trace back their steps of the night to figure out if they had sex! Was it when they were accidentally locked in a closet? Was it when they apparently kidnapped a baby for a few hours? Was it when they tried out a strip pole? No one knows, but the Pittsburgh Penguins Detective Agency (et al–if you think Flower isn’t getting in on this in his new city, you’re dead wrong) is on the case.  


	10. Sid/Geno: Fake Married + Erotic Dreams

Look, sometimes your best friend is going to be sent back to Russia because his work fucked up his immigration paperwork, and you just have to defraud the government a little bit by getting married for a green card. It happens. Sid proposes it because it makes sense, and Geno clearly thinks he’s crazy but also doesn’t want to be deported so he agrees, and so–they get married. (Their friends  _definitely_ think they’re crazy. money is already changing hands. Sid and Geno might think that they’re just friends, but they’ve all seen how Geno vets any guy Sid even considers taking home, and how Sid puts up with Geno’s ridiculous demands when he’s sick. They know). But Sid and Geno are just two platonic bros where Sid’s helping out a friend. 

Except, for immigration, they have to make it believable, so they need to move in together, and neither one of them wants to sleep on the couch so they’re just sharing the bed. It’s fine, Sid tells Flower; Geno’s got a ridiculous king sized bed, it’s way better than dealing with the couch. Sure, they’re both big guys, and Sid’s always known Geno was attractive, but it’ll be fine. 

And it is, for a while. They’re good friends, they know how to deal with each other in their space; they settle into a routine. So what if living in close quarters makes Sid really notice just how tall Geno is all the time, just how big his hands are? So what if Sid likes to wear sweatpants that mean Geno really has no choice but to watch his ass? They’re both attractive guys, and they can both admit it. It’s fine. 

Except then–well, Sid talks in his sleep, and Geno’s literally sharing a bed with him, it’s hard to miss when he starts saying Geno’s name in a way that makes it clear what he’s dreaming about. Geno wouldn’t have been awake, except that he has to use the bathroom so he woke up in the middle of the night. So, he hears it. And he can’t unhear it. So the next morning, he opens with, “i’m hear your dream, last night.” 

Sid goes red, but he shrugs. “Sorry. I think it’s a proximity thing, you know? We’re around each other all the time.” 

“Proximity,” Geno agrees, and doesn’t mention how unbearably hot it was to hear Sid moaning his name. 

“Unless,” Sid adds. 

“Unless?” Geno asks. 

“Unless–we can’t have sex with anyone else until this is done. We’re both attractive. Clearly, we’re attracted to each other.” Geno thinks about arguing this point, but Sid has definitely caught him starting at his ass before, so he decides not to. “We could just have sex. You know. Casually. To tide ourselves over.” 

Geno considers. For maybe a split second. “Yes,” He agrees, and gets up. He has not had sex in way to long and he still can’t stop hearing Sid’s moans. “You always have best plans.” 

Sid gets up too. Apparently, they’re doing it now. 

It’s good–of course, it’s them. But it’s still just friends with benefits, they explain to their friends. It’s only practical. No feelings are involved. 

(more money changes hands. No one missed how Geno’s hand lingered on Sid’s back, or how Sid had grinned up at Geno, something different in it. This, all their friends agree, is going to be the best disaster ever). 


	11. Sid/Geno: Married to the Job + Poorly Timed Confession

Sidney gets intense. It’s one of the things Geno loves about him–how good Sidney’s focus is, how he can narrow down onto one thing to the exclusion of everything else. Well, it’s one of the things Geno thinks he could love about Sid. If he ever got up the courage to talk to him, because Sidney’s the bigshot author who likes to come write in the bar because he has to get out of the house or he’ll scream, and Geno’s just the bartender who sneaks him extra pieces of cake and drinks for his friends who come around and reads the drafts when Sidney needs to show them to someone and chats with Sid when he needs distracting. But he’s not pining. He wants that noted, even if the entirety of the bar staff says otherwise. Sidney is just famously obsessed with his work to the exclusion of anything else, and he’s a bestselling author, and Geno’s–not. 

Finally, after a day where nothing’s working for Sidney so he spends it bemoaning that fact at the bar, grinning at Geno and laughing at his jokes and arguing with him over hockey that left Geno floating on air the whole way home, Geno decides that he has to do something. The next day, Sid’s there when he gets in, typing on his computer, so Geno pours him his coffee like he likes it–no milk but two sugars–and marches over there, puts the coffee down, and says his piece–that he’s in love with Sidney, that he has been for a while, that he thinks they could be good together, that he’d love to take Sid out to dinner and he’d give him the world if he could. 

And then he waits. And waits. And waits. ANd then Sid looks up, his brows furrowed in surprise, and says, “Oh, Geno, hi! Did you say something? Sorry, it’s a good day, I was too wrapped up in writing.” 

Geno deflates. “No, I’m not say anything,” he mutters, and slinks away. 

Cue a number of increasingly comedic but also tragic failures of confessions. Geno tries to write it out, but it ends up with the wrong person. He tries to tell Sid again, but he has headphones in. But Sid’s friend comes in at the wrong time (It’s Tanger and he absolutely knows what’s up and glares at Geno a lot but is also super amused by all of this and is taping it to send to Flower). But he spills water and it almost gets on Sid’s computer except that Sid’s got superhuman reflexes and gets it out of the way in time, and he’s too nice and Canadian to even be mad, Geno sighs back at the bar, gazing wistfully at Sid as he polishes the same part of the bar over and over again and Horny, the other bartender, laughs. 

Finally, Geno has had enough. Sidney’s been the sort of smug that comes with him having hit a good streak in his novel, and it’s unbearably attractive, and Geno can’t handle this anymore. He’s getting off an afternoon shift–the happy hour crowd is just coming in–and so he walks over to Sidney’s table, and when Sidney doesn’t look up immediately, he reaches out and closes Sidney’s computer. 

“What the–Geno?” Sid snaps. “What the hell, I was on a roll, I need to–”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Geno informs him, and watches those red lips fall open a little in surprise. “Is okay?” 

“What the–I mean, yes, but–”

Geno follows through on his threat and kisses him. It is just as good as he had dreamed about, all those long months watching Sidney chew on a pen as he typed. 

They’re both blinking a little dazedly when they separate, but Geno–who was prepared–comes out of it first. “Now, you go out to dinner with me?” he asks, and he knows Sid just kissed him and he’d never expected that so he is pushing his luck as far as he possibly can. 

“Yeah! Definitely.” Sid grins. Geno grins back, helpless. Then Sid makes a face. “But, well. I really was on a roll. I do need to…”

Geno laughs. He thinks he could fly. He definitely is going to go yell a lot in the back room. “You finish work,” he agrees, “Then we go on date.” 

“Good plan,” Sid smiles, and then he opens up his computer again. Geno waits, just to see, but–nope, he’s back in it, like Geno hadn’t interrupted him. Yes, Geno thinks. He could definitely love this man. 


	12. Sid/Geno: Summer Camp AU + Survival/Wilderness Fic

Sid’s been going to the summer camp since he was a kid, and now he’s been a counselor every summer since he was old enough to be one. It’s his last year this year though; after this he’s graduating and won’t have his summers free anymore. It’s sad for a lot of reasons, but at least one of those is Geno, one of the other counselors, who’s been there almost as long as Sid has. Every summer it’s the same–they come back and their friendship clicks into place, like they’re two sides of the same coin; then the summer ends and there are a few texts and they follow each other on social media but nothing else. Sid hates to give up those intense few months. Hates to give up Geno. He hasn’t really had anyone outside of camp who measures up to that sort of friendship (maybe because it’s more than just friendship, but he’s not ready to admit it). 

Anyway, he and Geno lead their cabins in their sleep out camp night near the end of the summer, and because this isn’t going to go dark they don’t get stranded or anything like that. They just tell ghost stories and make a bonfire and teach the kids how to tell some of the plants and how to find the north star and all that stuff, then send the kids to bed in their tents. 

But it’s not that late yet, and Sid and Geno stay out sitting by the fire in the middle of nowhere, just talking about the summer and pointedly not about how this is the end. Geno’s face is lit by the fire, turning him into shadows and those deceptively sleepy eyes, and Sid’s just–he can’t look away. Not when this might be one of the last times he has Geno like this. 

And there in the wilderness, with nothing around them, no future and none of those looming responsibilities, it’s easy to lean his head against Geno’s shoulder. Easy to rest his hand on Geno’s. Easy, when Geno smiles down at him, to tilt his head up for a kiss, and to swallow down the eager but shocked sounds Geno makes into Sid’s mouth.

Except–then in the morning, they have to go back to camp and the knowing looks of their friends at the bruises on Sid’s neck, and then a week later, to life, and they don’t know how to talk about it so they don’t. 

Until one day there’s a knock on Sid’s dorm room door, and when he opens it Geno’s there. 

“Is stupid, Sid,” he announces, like they’re in the middle of a conversation even though like usual, it’s only been a few texts since camp ended. Sid closes the door behind him, because Geno in these moods can get loud. 

“What are you doing here, G?”

“Is stupid,” Geno repeats. “I’m think, this just summer thing, you and me, can’t really last in real world. Go to school far apart, who knows what happens next year, who knows what happens during the year–maybe you have boyfriend, maybe I’m just summer fling while on break, just because I’m in love with you since we fourteen doesn’t mean same for you–”

Sid’s world breaks, reforms around him. “Geno–” Geno ignores him. 

“But–that stupid. We’re more than summer thing, Sid. We’re–bigger than that. Bigger than camp. It deserves chance, to be real.” 

Geno glares at Sid, half-hopeful and half-challenging. Sid waits, them, “Are you done now?” 

“Yes. Come here to tell you that.” 

“Okay. Good,” Sid tells him, and then pushes him against the door so he can kiss him. It’s as good in a dorm room as it was under the stars. 


	13. Sid/Geno: Mutual Pining + Erotic Dreams

This sounds like the set up for a dream sharing fic! Geno’s always been able to slip into people’s dreams, though he doesn’t have great control over it and it usually happens accidentally. He tries not to do it, anyway; its intrusive, even if he knows better than most that what happens in dreams isn’t actually reflective of what people really want. He’s seen some  _weird_ dreams in his time. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean he isn’t tempted, especially when Sid’s right there, asleep on the plane, in the hotel room next to his, on Geno’s couch. He could just…slip in. See what Sid dreams about. See if he can use it to figure out what Sid wants, how he can give it to him, if that would make Sid look at him as more than just his teammate and his friend. But he doesn’t. He wouldn’t. And he won’t torture himself with it, anyway. 

Except then–he accidentally falls into a dream, and he realizes immediately it’s a dream, and the heat that fills it makes it clear what kind of dream it is, but it takes him a second to realize it’s  _Sid’s_ sex dream, and another to realize that–he’s in it. Geno’s seeing Sid dream about them having sex. 

It should be everything he wants, but–dreams aren’t necessarily what people want, and Sid’s not looking at him, and he can barely look at Sid without remembering what Sid had dreamed them doing, what it had felt like, and Geno  _wants_ but he doesn’t know if this is a dream he can have. 


	14. Sid/Geno: "I’m pregnant.”

Tanger invites a bunch of them over to his house for some beers, and then pulls Geno, Sid, and a few of the other older guys aside at practice that morning. “Come early tonight?” he says. It sounds a little ominous; Geno glances to the side, at Sid. If he’s right and something’s up, Sid would be the first to be suspicious. 

There’s definitely something up. Sid’s beaming at Tanger, so he clearly knows something, but it’s nothing bad. 

Or at least, Geno doesn’t think so, until Tanger gets all of their agreement and then wanders off to go bother Olli. Sid turns back to his stall, and maybe to anyone else he’d still look the same, but Geno’s known Sid for years–Geno’s been looking at Sid for years, and he knows every line of that face. 

“Okay?” he asks, nudging Sid easily with his hip. 

Sid looks up, apparently surprised, and then he smiles, for real–the sort of smile that makes Geno wonder, sometimes, if he’s not the only one who’s been looking for all these years. “Yeah,” Sid says. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying. “It’s good.” 

“Good with Tanger?” Geno presses. He and Sid haven’t talked about it, but he knows it’s sucked for all of them, Flower leaving; he knows it probably sucks for Sid even more. He’s seen Sid’s eyes go to where Flower should be, seen him pause like he’s waiting for a joke. It was hard for Sid when Duper left too, even if that was different. If something’s up with Tanger…There are things Geno can’t give Sid, even if he wants to. Wishes he could. But as long as Sid doesn’t look back, as long as Sid doesn’t want him to, Geno can’t. 

“Yeah, of course.” Sid pauses, then smiles again. “You want a ride over?” 

“But you drive so slow,” Geno complains, and Sid keeps smiling the rest of the time they spend getting changed. Maybe Geno can’t give Sid everything, but he can give him this. 

///

They get to Tanger’s early as promised even though Sid drives like a grandpa–Sid’s driving cancels out the fact that he actually gets Geno out of the house, as they’ve figured out by now. Tanger and Sid exchange a look that makes it clear, again, that Sid knows what’s going on, and then they’re herded into the kitchen, where they’re the last ones there–Catherine is chatting with the rest of them in the kitchen, holding a glass of water. But she comes over to greet them, Sid with loving enthusiasm and Geno with friendly cordialness, and then ends up with an arm wrapped around her husband’s waist as Sid gets them beers. 

He pops off the tops of both bottles, then hands one to Geno and leans back against the counter. He’s relaxed here; not quite like he is in his own space or the rink but almost. It’s a good look on him. It’s almost, but not quite, how he’d looked in Geno’s home. 

“Everyone shut up!” Tanger calls, when they’ve both got their beers. “We have something to tell you.” 

Geno glances at Sid again, but Sid’s got his media face on. 

“You–” Cath doesn’t even let Horny get out his chirp. 

“I’m pregnant,” she says, flushed and smiling, and Tanger’s grinning bright as he is after the best of games. 

“What?” Phil gets out, loud and happy. “That’s great!” 

“So happy!” Geno agrees, going over to join everyone in the group hug that’s forming. He knows how long Cath and Tanger have been trying, how hard it’s been. Sid’s happiness makes sense now, of course he’s delighted for his friends. 

Geno glances up, to see where Sid is, because he’s not in his scrum–and so he catches sight of Sid ducking out of the room. Geno can’t not follow, not after so long; no one else even comments when he ducks out after Sid. He follows him out to the living room, where Sid’s leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and his head tipped back. 

“Not okay, I think,” Geno says. 

Sid opens his eyes. He doesn’t look surprised. “It is. I’m thrilled for Kris and Cath.” 

“Doesn’t mean is okay,” Geno points out. He angles himself so he can perch on the edge of the couch next to Sid, so he’s almost at eye level with Sid. Their knees are almost brushing. Sid’s almost looking at Geno. 

He knocks his ankle against Sid’s, so Sid has to look at Geno. “Can tell me,” he urges. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. I just…” Sid shakes his head. “I know I chose hockey, and that’s fine. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I want,” he corrects himself, and Geno’s been looking at Sid a long time, and knows he isn’t lying. “It would just be, I don’t know. Nice, if I could come home to something like this. To a family.” He’s looking past Geno’s shoulder, seeing a life he might be able to lead. 

Geno makes himself smile. “Could,” he points out. You could have me, he doesn’t say, because Sid wants a family to come home to, and Geno will be beside him as long as he wants, but he won’t be at home. Neither of them are made for that. “Getting old, about time.” 

Sid makes a face. “Yeah, where will I meet someone? Someone who wants a family but doesn’t mind that I’m gone most of the time, who would want to deal with all my shit but doesn’t just want me for that shit, who would be okay knowing that any day I could come home with brain damage?” He snorts. “Yeah, I’ll put that on Tinder.” 

“That person exists,” Geno insists. Right here. Look at me, he wills Sid, trying to put everything he wants in his eyes. We’d figure it out. Just look at me. 

Sid tilts his head, and then his hand’s on Geno’s shoulder and their eyes have locked, and for a second, Geno thinks–but then Sid smiles, the big, bright smile he gives to all his friends, and squeezes Geno’s shoulder. “Yeah, I’m sure they do,” Sid agrees. Geno deflates. “Thanks, G. You’re a good friend.” He glances over Geno’s shoulder, towards the kitchen. “We should go back in, before they send a search party out.” 

“Yeah,” Geno agrees, but he can’t help himself. Even as Sid’s moving past him, he reaches up, catches Sid’s hand still on his shoulder. “Sid.” 

Sid turns back, his eyebrows cocked quizzically, smiling a little. He’s everything Geno’s wanted. Geno couldn’t give him everything he wanted, even if Sid wanted him to, but he could try. He would try to make up for it. If Sid ever thought–if Sid ever looked back. But Sid’s eyes are on  Geno, but Geno has been looking at him for ten years now, and he knows that Sid isn’t  _looking_. 

“Never mind,” Geno says, and shakes his head. He gets up too, lets Sid’s hand fall. He makes himself smile again. “We go in, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Sid agrees slowly, his eyes narrowing. Geno can feel Sid’s gaze on his back as he walks back into the kitchen. 


	15. Sid/Geno: “So, err. I noticed you’re kinda naked. Is that intentional, or?”

Geno walks into his room, pauses, and then turns and checks his room number. It’s definitely his dorm room. This is definitely his room, and the bed his and the pictures on the walls are his, but the guy  _in_ his bed is not his. 

“Um.” He says. The guy is lying on top of the sheets, one arm over his chest and the other behind his head. He is, well. Very naked. Geno can’t help but notice. Very naked, and built like a tank even in the quick glance Geno lets himself before he decides it’s creepy and focuses on his face. His face is better; it’s a handsome face with high cheekbones and pink lips that are halfway to pouting. “You in my room?” 

“Yeah, hi. Are you Geno?” The guy makes a move like he’s going to shake hands, then stops. “Sorry about this. I’m going to kill my teammates.” 

“Teammates?” 

“It’s a hazing thing.” The guy shakes his head. “Anyway. Hi. I’m Sidney, and Horny–Patric Hornqvist–said to tell you you’re welcome.” 

“What?” Horny means hockey, which doesn’t surprise Geno at all–Sidney’s built like a hockey player. It still explains…nothing. “So, um. I notice you’re kinda naked. Is that on purpose?” 

“Yeah, I really wanted to be handcuffed naked to a hot guy’s bed,” Sidney says, rolling his eyes, then flushes a little. Handcuffed. That makes sense. “I mean. That’s not–I wouldn’t–it’s a hazing thing, I said. Can you unlock me?” 

“Unlock?” 

Sidney’s eyes go narrow. “Do you not have the key? Horny said you’d have the key.” 

A number of things are starting to make sense, most importantly how Horny had laughed when Geno had seen him at dinner, patted him on the back, and handed him a box that he made Geno promise he’d keep safe. Also, how intense Horny had gotten when Geno had gotten drunk and started bemoaning how he hadn’t hooked up with a guy in a while and describing his type. Which Sidney is. Almost exactly. 

“Yes, I have.” Geno digs in his backpack to get out the key. Sidney watches him as he approaches, not wary but aware. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who misses things. Geno bets he’s great on the ice. “Here.” He has to lean over Sidney to get to the handcuff. It’s a lot of pec muscles and sharp hazel eyes. 

He pauses, his hand on the handcuff. “How you get here?” 

“Seriously? Just unlock me and I’ll go.” 

Geno has never been able to resist being an asshole, though, and also, well. There is a very hot guy naked in his bed. “You look like big guy, strong. How they get you here?” 

Sidney’s cheeks go a little red for the first time, but he’s scowling. It’s a good look on him. The flush reaches down his chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Could ask Horny.” 

“You can’t, because I’m going to kill him first.” Sidney tilts his head at Geno, evaluating. “Let me go and I’ll let you help. This is a prank on you too.” 

“Let me help?” Geno asks. He’s been ready to unlock, but no one lets him do anything. “Maybe I let you help me.” 

Sidney grins suddenly, bright and overwhelming. "We can work together,” he allows, in a tone of voice that makes it pretty clear who he thinks is going to be in charge. “Now let me go. Please.” 

Geno unlocks the handcuff, but lets his hand rest on the lock. He doesn’t think he’s reading this wrong. He doesn’t think Horny would put some guy naked on his bed who would get pissed about him reading this wrong, and Sidney’s seemed irritated but never scared or worried–honestly, his arms are amazing and the handcuffs were pretty flimsy, Geno’s not sure he couldn’t have broken out if he’d really wanted to. So he lets himself smile, the smirk that people tend to like. “Not sure I should let you go. Feel like need more payment.” He lets his gaze drift down to Sidney’s lips. 

“Oh? Oh.” Sidney’s tongue flicks out, and that assessing gaze is back, but darker, running over Geno. It makes Geno want to preen, want to go lift some weights or something to impress Sidney. “Payment, eh?” he asks, then his wrist has been wrenched out of Geno’s hold and he surges up to press his lips to Geno’s. 

It’s a good kiss, if too short, and when Sidney lets him go they’re both smiling. “So,” Sidney says, licking his lips but otherwise not showing any indication that that happened. “How are we going to kill my teammates?” 

Geno laughs, and settles on the bed next to Sidney. He thinks maybe he should be sending them a fruit basket instead. 


	16. Jamie/Tyler: one of them says I love you in an unusual place

“Damn, Benny!” Tyler cheers, making an exaggerated searching expression towards the other end of the batting cage. “Hit it out of the park!” 

Jamie grins. He loves hockey, and he doesn’t regret it, but getting a bat in his hand feels good too. “I was pretty good at this once, you know.” 

“Pretty good,” Tyler scoffs, still grinning. He’s got the gleam in his eye, as he gives Jamie a quick up and down look, that says that he’s going to be getting Jamie home soon. Jamie feels it. Tyler’s in really tight pants for the cages and it’s looking really good. “Pretty good, he says,” Tyler keeps going. “Are you pretty good at hockey, too?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Jamie agrees, and Tyler laughs, shaking his head. Jamie’ll never stop feeling proud, for having put that expression on Tyler’s face. 

“You’re such a dork, I love you,” Tyler tells him, still laughing. 

Jamie starts to laugh–then what Tyler said hits them both, basically at once. Jamie can see it as Tyler’s face freezes. Shit, Jamie thinks, watching the expressions flit over Tyler’s face, too fast to count. He’s going to take it back. It’s the part of him back from when they started dating, when Jamie still didn’t quite get why a guy like Tyler would look at a guy like him. Sometimes Jamie’s still not sure. He’s going to take it back, and Jamie will have to pretend like not saying it back isn’t killing him, and he’s a shitty liar and Segs’ll know and then–

“Shit,” Tyler mutters, and he looks angry. “Shit, I can’t believe I–there was a plan.” 

“A plan?” Jamie gets out. 

“Yes, a plan.” Tyler’s glaring now. “I was going to–there were going to be candles, and the dogs were involved, and it was going to be romantic.”

He’s not taking it back. Jamie can feel himself smiling. “You? Romantic?” 

“Fuck you, I can be very romantic.” Tyler’s smiling again though. He grabs the bat from Jamie before he can think to react, then hooks it around Jamie’s knee and pulls, so Jamie has to stumble forward into him. Tyler steadies him with a hand on his shoulder and a smug grin. “See?” 

“That was smooth, Segs. Not romantic.” 

That gets him raised eyebrows and the determined look that usually ends in goals. “Wanna bet?” Tyler demands, about ready to throw down, and–

“I love you too,” Jamie blurts out, because he hasn’t said it yet and he has to, to this ridiculous man. 

Tyler’s grin is bright as the sun above them. “Okay, I need you to get some more hits, because that’s really hot, then we’re going home and not coming out for days.” 

“Romantic,” Jamie teases, though his cheeks are red and he’s taking the bat back from Tyler. 

Tyler smirks. “Oh, it will be,” he says, and it sounds more like a warning than an assurance, but Jamie’s ready to find out.  


	17. Sid/Geno: magical turning into animals AU

“If you lose Sid, I think everyone gets in trouble.” 

Geno laughs, and looks up. The mountain air is cool and crisp, and Geno’s thankful for the furs they traded for at the last village. He’s sure he’ll be more thankful for them soon, as their quest continues. But there’s a dot in the sky that he can see, far up in the clouds. 

“He’s having fun,” Geno tells Tanger. They all feel the weight of the quest, but none more than Sid. 

“If we leave without him, you’re leading his horse,” Tanger warns, and Geno nods absently. 

A screech–and then there’s a rush of wind, and Geno raises his arm in time for the eagle to settle on his glove. “Good flight?” Geno asks, and Sid turns his head. His eyes are somehow the same in this shape as in his human one. 

Sid nods, and runs his beak through Geno’s hair, grooming absently. “Leaving soon,” Geno tells him. “Want to ride?” 

Geno doesn’t need to see Sid’s face to know his calculation–how long until the next village. The challenges ahead. The expectations back home, of the glory they’ll bring, and how hard they can fail. 

Sid shakes his head. Geno chuckles, and tosses him back into the air, dodging the snap of his huge wings as he goes. 

Sid climbs higher, higher, higher into the sky, until Geno can’t see him anymore. He’s not worried, though. He knows Sid’ll always come back. 


	18. Nicke/Ovi: the mummy au

“Having fun?” Alex asks. Nicke ducks one of the henchmen–Alex thinks these ones aren’t undead, but he’s not sure–and gives Alex his most baleful look. It is very baleful, Alex notes cheerfully, punching another henchman in the face. No one does baleful quite like Nicke. 

“I am a librarian,” Nicke says, like that’s an explanation. He dodges again, then neatly steps to the side so that the henchman falls into the ditch. He turns the baleful look on the henchamn, like they’ve personally offended him. Alex will have to get him a better class of henchmen to fight. 

“Tell the truth, you’re bored back at your library,” Alex tells him. He head buts the next henchman, just because it always looks fun. It actually hurts, but he’s not going to tell anyone that. 

Nicke surveys the street, where a few henchmen are still coming. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips, even though maybe only Alex could see it. “You do need me here,” he says. Alex grins at him. Nicke is definitely having fun. 


	19. Sid/Geno: haute couture au

“You’re little short, for model.” 

Sid rolls his eyes, and doesn’t turn around to see who’s come up behind him.  “Wonder why that is?” he asks, and sticks a pin into the dress of the model in front of him. It’s not hanging exactly right, and that won’t do for Paris. “Couldn’t be because I’m not a model.” 

“Then what the point of your face?” comes from behind him, and a hand settles lightly on his shoulder. Sid adjusts the dress one more time, then nods. 

“You’re good to go,” he tells the model, who’s smiling at him in that humoring, amused way all the models get with him after a while, and then straightens and turns. “Hey, G.” 

“Sid,” Geno replies, grinning. He looks the same as he did a few months ago, when they were last at a show together–still too tall and lanky, still exuding that confidence that made Sid want to poke at him until he admitted Sid was the best. That made Sid want to curl into him and believe him when he said Sid was the best. “Good to see you.” He reaches out a hand, and pushes some of Sid’s hair–longer than it has been in years–off his forehead. 

It’s such a move. Sid really wishes that after a decade working parallel, sometimes together and sometimes in competition but always in line, it didn’t work. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and leans into the touch. “Good to see you too.”  


	20. Sid/Geno: vet + pet owner AU

“Wait, he’s who?” Geno asks, as the tech pushes him through the door. Geno’d only just came into the emergency shift–encountered Sam, the golden lab, when he was getting prepped–but he’s already a mess and he knows it. He is no way prepared to be confronted with–

“Sidney Crosby?” he says, stumbling into the waiting room. A man sitting in the corner unfolds himself, and his baseball cap is pulled low but no, that’s definitely Sidney Crosby. Geno has no idea what to do with his hands. 

Sidney Crosby comes over the where Geno’s standing. He somehow looks bigger than he does on TV–probably because the pads are there to even everyone out–even if he’s considerably shorter than Geno. His face is set, though, into a face Geno’s saw on TV yesterday night, after a shitshow of a game. “How…”

English, Geno knows that. “Come,” he manages, and leads Sidney Crosby back to one of the rooms. Sidney Crosby follows him quietly, but when they get to the room and Geno closes the door, Sidney Crosby lifts his head like he’s waiting for a blow. 

“How is he?” 

Oh. Right. Geno smiles. “Sam is fine,” he assures Sid. “Operation went great. Should be up on his feet soon.” 

“Oh.” Sidney Crosby’s mouth drops and then, to his surprise, something happens in his eyes that looks wet. “Oh, thank god.” 

“Sorry!” Geno definitely does’t know what to do with his hands now. Is making Sidney Crosby cry a hanging offense in Pittsburgh? He thinks it might be. He feels like it should be. “No, really, is good–”

Sidney Crosby smiles, and blinks and shakes his head. “Yeah, I–sorry,” he starts again, his smile turning rueful. “It’s been a long night. A long few days.” He shakes his head again, then holds out a hand. “Sorry. Let’s start again. I’m Sidney. My dog is doing well?” 

Geno can’t not laugh at that. He takes his hand. “Geno Malkin,” He says. He’s shaking Sidney Crosby’s hand. It’s warm and calloused and strong. Geno will eventually remember to let go. “Sam fine, don’t worry. Best dog for best player,” he adds, and watches Sidney Crosby smile. 


	21. Tyler/Jamie: sugar baby AU

“Seriously?” Jamie breathes, holding the tickets. He grins up at Tyler from where he’s sitting at the table, his eyes huge and impressed. “Seriously? These are for me?” 

Tyler grins. “All you, babe,” he tells Jamie, and watches Jamie’s eyes light up. God, he likes him so much. If getting him tickets to World Series games is going to keep him smiling like that at Tyler–is going to keep him here, with Tyler, even though Jamie’s like, a real adult and such a good person and probably deserves more than Tyler’s mess, well, Tyler’s spent much more money, in hopes that someone would stay. It’s not like he doesn’t have it to spare. It’s not like Jamie’s not worth it. 

“You’re the best, Ty!” Jamie exclaims, surging to his feet so he can tug Tyler in and kiss him, hard. Tyler smiles into the kiss, and grabs onto his biceps, clutches him close. Stay, he tries to will into the kiss. Stay, and I’ll get you anything you want. Just–stay with me. 


	22. Sid/Geno: arranged marriage/wedding night AU

“So, let’s get this done.” 

Geno looks across the bed at Crosby–Sidney, he supposes, now that they’re wed. He doesn’t know him enough to read his face, but the set of his chin is determined and his expression matter of fact. 

“Just like that?” Geno asks, trying to smile. “No romance?” 

Sidney shrugs. “Romance hasn’t had much to do with any of this, has it?” he points out. He’s right, of course. Still, Geno feels something in him twinge, dissolve. A part of him had hoped this was like the stories his sister in law read, where the handsome prince fell in love at first sight with his betrothed. Geno didn’t, though Sidney was handsome enough and seemed kind, but maybe he’d hoped there’d be more than the way Sidney was unbuttoning his shirt as pragmatically as he might unsaddle a horse. 

“Guess not,” he agrees, starting on his own shirt. This isn’t anything like what he’d expected for his wedding night. “But–that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?” 

Sidney looks taken aback, like he hadn’t considered that–then he smiles, and that thing that had dissolved in Geno flickers a little back to life. “Yeah,” he says. “I think we could be friends.” 


	23. Tyler/Jamie: pen pals AU

_Hey, you up?_

As soon as Jamie sends it, he feels like an idiot. Tyler’s three hours ahead of him, of course he’s asleep. Or if he’s not asleep, he’s probably out partying or something, because he does that. Tyler is cool, way cooler than Jamie would ever be, and way cooler than anyone who’d be Jamie’s friend would be if they hadn’t met at camp years ago and stuck. Jamie’s still jsut sort of waiting for Tyler to realize that. 

Instead of buzzing, though, his phone starts to ring, and Jamie picks it up to hear Tyler’s, “What’s up?” 

Jamie can’t help his smile, at hearing Tyler’s voice. He can hear the sounds in the background, though–Tyler’s definitely out. “Nothing, if you’re busy.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Tyler says, and Jamie’s always been good at telling if Tyler’s lying and it doesn’t sound like he is now. “I always have time for you.” 


	24. Sid/Geno: Escort Sid AU

The apartment door opening wakes Geno up. He keeps his eyes closed, as he hears the door close, then the steady footsteps down the hall. He opens his eyes just as Sid comes through the door to the living room. 

He looks–he looks good, because Sid always looks good; he looks exhausted, because Sid looks exhausted too often, and Geno doesn’t like to think about what makes him look like that. 

“Long night?” he asks. 

Sid blinks at him, then shrugs. “They’re all long. You didn’t have to wait up.” 

Geno doesn’t dignify that with an answer. They both know that he’s going to wait up to make sure Sid gets home safely, and that nothing went wrong. It’s the least he can do–the least Sid will let him do. “Everything okay?” 

Sid smiles, a little, and lets Geno tug him down onto the couch next to him. “It went fine. He was one of the nice ones.” 

Geno ducks his head into the base of Sid’s neck. He can smell the soap–Sid always showers before he comes home–but he knows what that’s hiding. 

“You okay?” Geno asks, drawing Sid in closer. Sid relaxes back in increments, like he’s remembering who Geno is. Like he’s remembering that Geno’s different. That Geno’s want is a quiet thing they don’t talk about, and that they both know this matters more. 

“I’m fine,” Sid says, and Geno holds him tight and lets him have the lie. 


	25. Sid/Geno: Frat Bro Geno & Blushy Boyfriend Sid

“I’m not wearing that, Geno.” 

Geno gives Sid his biggest, most puppy dog eyes in the mirror over Sid’s head. Sid glares back. “Why not?”

“Because I look–” Sid holds out his arms. He’s wearing the Delta Sig jacket Geno’d draped over his shoulders when he’d complained about being cold, and it hangs weirdly off of his broader shoulders and shorter arms. “It looks stupid. I look ridiculous.” 

Geno leans in and wraps his arms around Sid’s waist, so he can rest his head on Sid’s shoulder and meet his eyes in the mirror. “You don’t look ridiculous,” he says, his fingers tracing the outline of the letters on the chest. His eyes are dark, and Sid knows that look. “You look like mine.” 

“Geno,” Sid complains, because that’s not something he should say, but Sid’s cheeks are going red anyway. Geno just grins back at him in the mirror, his arms around Sid and his smile utterly unrepentant. 


	26. Sid/Geno: Royalty AU

Geno’s never seen Sid like this. At school, it’s easy to forget; there, Sid’s just another one of the guys, working his way through university like the rest of them. At school, Geno can imagine that the stolen kisses behind the dining hall, in Sid’s room while his bodyguards look the other way, mean something–might grow into something. 

But now Sid’s dressed in all his formal regalia, with a crown on his head and a ceremonial sword at his hip, and he looks like the prince he is. Princes don’t kiss exchange students from Russia, Geno knows. This isn’t a fairy tale. 

Sid gives him an exasperated smile. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” he laughs, holding out his arms to show off how impractical it is. 

Geno shrugs. “Look good,” he says, and turns away. 

“Geno,” Sid sighs. “I’m still me.” 

Geno nods, though he doesn’t look at Sid again. “And I’m still me,” he agrees. He knows where that leaves them. 


	27. Sid/Geno: secretly married AU

“Guys, we have something to tell you.” 

Tanger looks at Phil. Phil looks at Horny. Horny looks at Hags. Hags looks at Sid and Geno, who are standing in front of them looking very nervous. “Yes?” Hags asks. 

“We–” Sid looks at Geno, who nods. “We’re married. We have been for a few years, and we hated keeping it secret from you, but we had to keep it quiet.” 

Hags looks at Horny. Horny looks at Phil. Phil looks at Tanger. Tanger rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no kidding,” he says. Then adds, as Sid and Geno’s nerves twist into confusion, “I’ll tell Flower the post-wedding bachelor party is finally a go, then? We’ve been planning it for ten years.” 


	28. Sid/Geno: soulmate au

Sid’s name comes in on his twenty-first birthday. He’s alone, ducked away like everyone always does, to make sure they see it on their own.

Sid doesn’t feel the letters when they appear on his wrist, but they’re there when he looks–and he doesn’t know much Cyrillic, but he knows these letters. 

He traces them with his finger, somehow unsurprised; it explains so much about the last year, about the hot and cold, about that last look when everyone went home for the summer. Then he pulls out his phone. 

It doesn’t even ring once before it’s picked up. “Hello?” Geno says. He sounds wary but hopeful. 

“Hi,” Sid says, and Geno’s breath catches over the phone. “You could have told me.” 

Geno laughs, and something clicks into place, like a goal hitting the back of the net. 


	29. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, Sherlock Holmes AU

There is no reason for Sidney to like Malkin. Malkin is in many ways everything Sidney cannot stand–he is overloud and flamboyant, he moves through the world with no care for the people around him, he wastes away his brilliance on drugs and music and only sometimes emerges to deign to solve a crime. There is no reason for Sidney, a man of routine and quiet and service, to like him–except that he does. Except that Malkin is also kind to children and animals, and he is a bloodhound on the scent when the case begins, and he invited Sidney in when he was little more than a shell of himself and did not judge him for it, and sometimes when Sidney has added his small contribution to a case–a bit of medical or military knowledge, generally, though sometimes it is his strong right arm–Malkin looks at him with amazed eyes and calls him brilliant and looks like he believes it. It’s hard not to like that. It’s hard not to stay, for that.  

* * *

 

Geno spends the first year they live together waiting for Crosby to leave. He has no illusions about who he is or what it is like to live with him, and Crosby is many wonderful, delightful things, but he is not a patient man. Geno dreads the day Crosby decides to leave, more than he would like to admit. He has never relied on a person before, never known what it would mean to have someone listen to his deductions with wide awed eyes and care about their opinions, never known how it would feel to wake in the morning and knew someone would be at the breakfast table and have that drive him out of bed. Though he would admit it to no one, he thinks he could keep this forever. But Crosby was the pride of the British army, once–the tone of voice of a man used to giving orders, the letters that sometimes coming bearing seals of important men, the undeniable way his mind clicks along through stratagems and tactics, nothing like his own mental acuity but useful in its own way, and definitely the best of that way. And Geno cannot imagine that he will not tire of Geno and his little flat eventually. 

* * *

 

Geno takes the case because he is bored, and because when the victim mentions the name of his employer, Crosby’s heartbeat picks up and his head tilts down, as if to hide his face. He has been distracted lately, taken up by the letters that continue coming from all the important men he corresponds with and his family, and going out to meeting with those important men, though he would never say as much. The case itself does not interest Geno overmuch, plebeian and not worth his time from the sound of it, but it would not do for Crosby to become bored as well. He tells the man they’ll take the case, and sends him on his way. After, Crosby fixes him with a skeptical look, darker than is his wont. “You were not predisposed to take this case,” he points out. Geno is, as always, delighted by how well Crosby can read him, if no one else. 

“No,” he admits, “But now I have, so we must go–”

“Malkin,” Crosby says, and reaches out to grab Geno’s forearm. No one touches Geno much; Crosby is the first. He wonders if it always feels like fire and chains, if other people were to put their arm upon his shirt. “This case will do you no good. I know his employer, from the wars.” Crosby’s hand closes tightly on Geno’s arm, an involuntary reaction–an unwilling memory. “He is not a man to deal honestly.” 

That is the most Crosby has ever said of his time in the army. Geno has deduced much of it, of course, but he also knows that Crosby’s nightmares come from something he does not know. It is not a thought he likes. “And I am not a man to be fooled,” he declares, and plucks his coat from the hook. “Come, Crosby. The case is afoot!” 

* * *

 

The case goes awry, as Sidney knew it would the instant Bettman’s name was mentioned. He follows after Malkin regardless, because without him Malkin would stumble into the lion’s den and tell the lions how many teeth they had but not notice their mouths closing until too late, but he is not pleased about it. He is much less pleased when he ends up captured, and tied to a chair in what appears to be a warehouse, and Bettman walks in, chuckling. “Well,” he says, and Sidney manages not to roll his eyes. “This is just like old times, isn’t it?” 

* * *

Geno is not a stupid man. Geno is in fact the smartest man, and so he knows when he alone is unmatched. Going in to retrieve Crosby alone has a 64% chance of failure, which is unacceptable. Geno’s own resources, his network of spies and informants, are not of much use to him. The police might be more, but they are too often slow to act. Slowness might mean Crosby’s death, another unacceptable outcome. So he sets his jaw and goes to court. It takes him a number of threats, lies, and a spot of blackmail, but then he is standing in front of the most important of Crosby’s important men. “Well?” asks Lord Mario Lemieux, Commander of Her Majesty’s Armies. “You’ve taken quiet some effort to be here. I assume you want something?” 

Geno draws himself up to his full height, and stares him down. He is not overfond of authority figures, and is less fond of men who try to tempt Crosby away from Geno  back to the army that left him injured and haunted. But he is not a stupid man, so he just snaps, “Sidney Crosby has been kidnapped. I require your assistance in retrieving him.” 

Lord Lemieux does not hesitate before rising. The concern on his face is comforting, at least; this is a man who understands the urgency of the situation. “Who took him?” he demands, like a father worried for his child, and Geno cannot relax, with Crosby missing, but he at least thinks that in this, he has an ally. The chance of failure has gone down to acceptable levels. 

* * *

Crosby is already on his feet and just finishing knocking the last of Bettman’s henchmen to the ground when Geno bursts in, Lemieux and his men hot on his heels. He looks up, and he smiles to see Geno. “Malkin!” he exclaims, then, “Lemieux? What are you doing here?” 

Lemieux takes in the scene. “I was told my assistance would be needed, but it seems we were mistaken.” 

Crosby’s lips twitch. Geno is irrationally angry. He had been smiling because of Geno, not Lemieux. “One day, you will stop underestimating me, my friend.” 

“On the contrary. I believe I know exactly your worth.” Lemieux gives the room another look, then takes half a step forward. “Crosby, you must see, what you can do–”

Crosby’s gaze sweeps the room. He seems to be considering it. Geno steps forward. “If we may proceed–” He lets the words snap out into the room– “I believe we have a villain to arrest.” 

“You’ll find him in the study, I believe,” Crosby remarks, pointing towards a door. “I believe that is where he spent his time, when not–entertaining himself, with me.” The words are said flatly, but Geno takes another look–a slight hesitation in the movement of Crosby’s left arm, a stiffness in his back. Broken ribs, possibly a broken arm. No damage to the face; unsurprising, as body blows tended to do more damage for less risk of permanent harm. Geno does not take risks. He knows precisely how he will strike Bettman, for this. 

They arrest Bettman, and Crosby keeps Geno from exacting the full revenge he would like to. Before they leave–Lemeiux to deal with Bettman, and Geno with Crosby to their flat, with a doctor on the way–Geno sees Lemieux and Crosby in conversation, but their heads are tilted so he cannot read their lips. Crosby’s doing, if he had to guess. He could attempt to find an angle at which he could see, but instead he goes to hail a cab. He knew this day would come, but delay seems the order of the hour. 

* * *

“I believe I will bathe for a week,” Sidney says, when the doctor has gone. Malkin had hovered throughout the entire examination, like he might have some input though the practicalities of medical science have never interested him; now he swoops around the room like it is too small to hold him. Sidney watches him until he cannot bear it any more. “Sit, please. You’re giving me a headache.” 

To Sidney’s surprise, Malkin sits, dropping into his armchair with his elbows braced upon his knees. He looks surprisingly serious, for a man who had just solved a case and acquired a favor from the Lord Commander–not that Sidney was short of favors from Lemieux. “Is the case not done?” Sidney asks. 

“No, it is done. Though I would hire a few Whitechapel thugs to go to the Old Bailey,” Malkin mutters the last bit. Sidney shakes his head, unduely fond. 

“I did not know you cared so much,” he teases gently. “Such revenge, for a few bruises.” 

“They were not bruises,” Malkin spits. He looks at the fire for a moment,  then turns to Sidney all at once, with the full force of that amazing mind behind his eyes. “Lemieux wants you to return to the army.” 

“Yes,” Sidney agrees, though Malkin has never needed his confirmation. 

“You could be of great use there,” Malkin observes. “The army has need of men like you. I presume Lemieux is offering you a high position. You–”

“Do you think I would leave?” Sidney interrupts. Malkin goes a sudden, blotchy red, which is confirmation enough. Sidney laughs, though it hurts his ribs. “You foolish man,” he says, still laughing. “I have served my country. Now it is time for my retirement, and I plan to spend it here.” 

“With me?” Malkin asks, and the flush remains high on his cheeks. His eyes are wide like a child’s might be, presented with a truth they had not yet considered. 

“If you’ll have me,” Sidney replies. He’d known that months ago. He’d known that tied to a chair and confident that Malkin was coming. He’d known that when he told Lemieux no this afternoon, perhaps regretful but sure. 

Malkin is on his feet again, but only to fold himself to his knees next to the couch, where he takes Sidney’s hand and moves it slowly, with more care not to injury him than Sidney has seen him take with anyone. “I would have you stay with me, Sidney,” he says solemnly. He brings Sidney’s knuckles to his mouth, and Sidney feels the warmth of it through his bones. 


	30. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, reality TV show AU

Geno and Phil have a show where they’re ~the Property Brothers except minus the brothers bit, but keeping the ‘large attractive men who bicker a lot and charm everyone’ bit. Geno is the contractor, and Phil is the real estate agent. Geno never expected their show to be this big, or really to be on TV at all, but he likes the idea of building a home for people, a place where they can be safe and happy. And he likes meeting everyone who wants a house, getting to know what makes them tick and what kind of house will give them that wide-eyed look of delight that comes when there’s the reveal and they see some feature they weren’t expecting and something clicks and they know this is  _their_ home. 

* * *

Sid really didn’t want to go on the show. Flower put in his application for him, because he figures that maybe being on TV will guilt him into actually getting his shit together and finishing a house, but the real clincher is when Sid’s daughter [surprise kidfic!] gives him big eyes and begs because they watch HGTV sometimes when Sid comes home from his law firm job and need something he can work in front of. So then, apparently, Sid’s going on the show. 

* * *

Geno tends to like all the people on the show. He tends to like people, generally, when he sets out to. But Horny (the cameraman) does manage to get a good shot of his face when they go to the restaurant to meet with the new client and he sees a man who’s built out of all his wet dreams sitting at the table, talking quietly to a girl about ten who must be his daughter and another man with a sharp face and a soul patch. They get a good. Phil doesn’t pretend he’s not laughing at Geno, then they sit down and hear about how Sidney’s been trying to move for ages but he can never find a house he likes (too picky, the other guy, Fleury, says, and Sidney rolls his eyes and elbows him and they’re acting like they’re just friends but Geno can’t tell) but now it’s getting to breaking point because Melissa, his daughter, just needs more space. Phil and Geno look at each other. This seems easy enough. 

* * *

It’s not easy. Sidney wasn’t kidding when he said he was picky, and he wants to be involved at every step of the process and seems to think that being a lawyer means he knows everything already, and Phil almost yells at him at least a hundred times before they finally find a house that suits him–mainly because Melissa loves a window nook, and the driveway is declared ‘big enough for hockey.’ Then it’s Geno’s turn to really take over, and he’s expecting it to be just as annoying. And it is, except–except Sidney is also quietly funny and so sweet with his daughter and so clearly a workaholic trying to balance that with his family and he’s bad at making decisions but he has a sense of humor about himself, and Geno’s annoyed most of the time but at least half of that is because he knows how badly he’s failing at being professional. Horny likes to show him some dailies that are just Geno staring at Sid, and only half of those are at his ass. 

* * *

Sid’s stretched thin with the house and work and Melissa, who he refuses to just give to nannies but he’s also a new partner and needs to prove himself. Being him, he throws himself into the house as a way to distract himself. And it doesn’t help that Geno’s great, way greater than he seemed on TV. He humors all of Sid’s questions and his hanging around, and he’s really good with Melissa, and, maybe most of all, he somehow understands when Sid stammers out some thoughts he has on a room and turns that into something perfect. It makes Sid want to tell him things about himself, so he can put it into the house. And maybe just so he’ll know. But the cameras are still there, and Sid can’t forget that. The house will be done and then he’ll leave, and that’ll be that. 

* * *

One night, Sidney stops by just as the crew is finishing up, so Geno takes him around to see the progress himself. The cameras have gone, and it’s just the two of them in a house that’s quickly becoming someplace real. They wander and Geno’s kind of caught in this moment, of the two of them together in the dark house, so that when Sidney ends up nitpicking in the living room it jolts him out of it enough that he snaps, “It all good! Why does it matter so much?” 

And Sidney starts to snap back, then he takes a deep breath. “I just…” he looks out at the living room. It’s got the big comfy couches Sidney asked for and the built ins and all the little things Geno tried to put there so that they would like it. “I love Mel, you know? So much. But I’m not really…good at that. And it’s been tough for her, since leaving her mom’s. I just…want to make a home for her. For us.” He’s still looking out at the room, but Geno can’t look anywhere but at him, in his crisp right-from-work suit but messy hair and perfect profile. “That’s why it has to be perfect.” 

Geno’s heart can probably be heard from miles away, but he just nudges Sid’s shoulder with his own. Sidney turns to look at him, and that’s enough that Geno almost has to look away. “Will be, if you’re there. I see her, with you–she loves you, lots. House not change that.” Then he hurries on, because that felt too raw. “Also, I make perfect house anyway, so you not worry about that.” 

Sidney snorts. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then looks around the house. “What’s your policy on conflict of interests?” 

It’s such a non-sequiter that Geno has to make sure he’s understanding correctly. But he is, so, “I have to ask lawyer? Why?”

Sidney smiles, and it’s the smile Geno imagines he must use in court, when he knows he has a winning case. “Because I want to know if I’m allowed to ask you out now, or if I have to wait until the house is finished.” 

Geno sways forward, but unfortunately, he knows this rule. “Can’t date people on show,” he says mournfully, staring at Sid’s lips. He could probably break the rules, just a little. “Is conflict, or something.” 

“Damn.” 

Geno looks at his lips a little longer, then at his shoulders and his ass and back to his lips and his eyes and, “Can maybe bend rules, a little,” he decides, and reaches out to haul Sidney in to kiss. 

* * *

They continue to ‘bend the rules’ a lot until the house is finished. No one is fooled even a little. 

* * *

The day of the unveiling, Melissa and Sid come to the house and they’re suitably impressed with everything, and Melissa spends a lot of time running around being enthusiastic and Sidney spends a lot of time walking around and touching features that he hadn’t even asked for as such–the wine drawer, the mudroom shelves for gear, the little fridge in the office because Sid had said he snacked a lot–and finally looks at Geno. “The house is done, right?” he says, and Geno nods. Phil, behind him, is making faces and pointing to get Horny’s attention. “Okay,” Sid goes on, turning to Geno and starting to reach out for him before pausing. “Geno, you made me the perfect house–the perfect home. Now will you go out with me?” 

“I think abut it,” Geno tells him, but he’s laughing and reaching for Sid too. 

Horny gets it all on camera. This is going to be their best episode yet, he and Phil agree. 


	31. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, emergency services AU

Zhenya does not have a crush on the intimidatingly polite and attractive and efficient paramedic. He wants that noted, because he is pretty sure everyone forgets, when he comes out of a burning building where he just heroically saved 2 people and a cat and probably the whole city, if he’s being honest, and all he gets is Sasha coming up to him with a shit eating smile and a cooed, “Your favorite doctor is here!” Which, fine. Maybe Sidney is Zhenya’s favorite paramedic who comes to their scenes, because he is hot and efficient and sometimes Zhenya’s gotten him to talk about hockey when Sidney patches him up and his hands are brisk and capable over Zhenya’s skin and sometimes that makes Zhenya think about where else he’d bring that impressive competency, but none of that is a crush. Zhenya tells Sasha as much. Sasha just laughs at him and tells him his hair is a mess before going to bother someone else. Zhenya does quickly pat at his hair before he goes over to Sidney to get checked out, because it’s always important to look his best. 

* * *

Sidney definitely has a crush on the hot firefighter. He gets plenty of his own teasing for it on the ambulance, but Geno is tall and solid and has a great laugh and an easy confidence that draws Sidney in. Of course, because Sidney’s Sidney, that crush generally manifests in him being even more awkward than usual around Geno, and only sometimes mumbling out something about hockey while making sure to patch him up as quickly and well as possible, so Sidney can go bang his head against a wall and see if Flower will buy him a hot chocolate in exchange for being a failure as a human being. 

* * *

this dance has been happening for close to a year. Obviously they don’t always work together, but they do enough that it’s becoming a Thing. Both sets of friends have bets. The paramedics and the firefighters have a joint pool. They all work stressful jobs and need some comedic relief, and watching their colleagues turn into hopeless messes around each other really works for that. 

* * *

Everything gets infinitely better–from their friends’ point of view, at least–when the firefighters get a call and show up only to find Sidney sitting outside his house in only pajama pants looking very irritated at his house, which isn’t in a good way. “It’s the oven, it was not my fault, and I don’t want to hear it,” he grits out, as the firefighters go in, where they discover that it was the oven, that it was highly debatably Sidney’s fault, and that there is no way the house is going to be livable any time soon. “You tell him,” Sasha tells Zhenya, and Zhenya has a minor but comprehensive freak out about going to talk to Sidney when he is wearing pajama pants that are low enough that it is a real possibility that those are the only things he’s wearing. Zhenya is in no way capable of handling that. He definitely cannot both handle that and tell Sidney bad news. Zhenya blames those pants, and the way the look on Sidney’s face turns from irritation to devastation when he’s told that he is now homeless, for why he suggests Sidney come crash with him. He can’t imagine what Sidney’s excuse is for saying yes (it’s the firefighter uniform and how Geno looks streaked with sweat and ash, and the way he’d been kind telling Sidney that his house was a lost cause). 

* * *

No one can figure out what that does to the pool. Olli insists that he wins everything because he said they’d move in together. Everyone else calls bullshit. 

* * *

Living together goes surprisingly well. There are a lot of kinks to work out, from the logistical–Geno takes long showers and Sidney did not always calculate for that–to the emotional–it had never quite occurred to Zhenya before that being a paramedic didn’t just mean showing up to burning buildings, it also meant going into the middle of gang wars to pick up gunshot victims, and he doesn’t have a great time realizing that. But they figure it out. Zhenya learns that those pajama pants Sidney had been wearing were officially his worst enemy. Sidney learns that not even his awkwardness can stand up in the face of Geno’s determination to make him settle in. Sidney’s protestations that he’ll find somewhere else to live as his house gets fixed fade away with nights when they both come home too wrung out and adrenaline-drained to sleep and sit in front of the TV trying to remember how to be human again. Zhenya figures out the best tea to have ready for Sidney when he comes home with a pale face and drawn eyes after seeing too much pointless violence. Sidney realizes that after a night of bad fires Geno just wants someone to sit with him quietly and let Geno hug them. They make plans for dinner when Sidney patches Geno up after a fire. They learn each other, piece by piece, and until calling what they feel for each other crushes is far too small. 

* * *

It comes to a head one morning when they both come off shift at the same time. It wasn’t anything special for Geno, but Sidney had had a call where the guy’s wife was in the ambulance with them, holding his hand and begging him to hold on, and the guy shouldn’t have lived, probably, but he’d held on. It makes Sid think, after calls like that. He’s not generally one for thinking, but he does sometimes. So as Geno makes them both breakfast (Sid is not allowed near the oven) Sidney looks at him, and thinks about who he might hold on for, and then when they’ve finished eating breakfast Sid clears the plates and sits down next to Geno and reaches out to cover his hand with Sid’s. Geno looks at him, surprised, and Sidney smile back, trying to convey everything he feels through that instead of words. Geno’s eyes go wide, and he smiles too, and flips his hand over to interlace their fingers. 

* * *

They refuse to give a firm date for when they got together, and the pool dissolves into chaos. Sid and Geno are very pleased in their revenge. 

* * *

Sidney never does get around to moving back into his house. The pajama pants have been promoted to Zhenya’s best friend. 


	32. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, werewolf AU

Geno is just minding his business when he’s attacked. He still doesn’t know why; in some ways it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that his stupid temper got te better of him and then he was bleeding out in an alley, and it barely registers when two figures come on him. They’re just there, and then one is saying “Sid, no,” and the other is saying, “He’ll die if I don’t,” and then the first is saying, “He might die if you do, or he’ll hate you,” and then there’s a face over him and all Geno remembers from that moment is eyes gold as the sun hitting an icon and a voice, calm but fast, saying, “Do you want me to heal you, if it would change your life forever, and maybe not for the better?” and all he could think was of the sun and his parents and all the life he’d thought about and he nods. Then the eyes are steady, but the face is different, and it’s canine and coming at him and Geno must be hallucinating, because then there’s pain at his shoulder and then black. 

* * *

He wakes up in a room he’s never seen before, with someone he definitely doesn’t know standing over him–a pretty woman with long brown hair and kind eyes. There is also, he notices suddenly, a fucking wolf in the corner, and maybe he screams a little, but he knows the stories. Everyone does. “Oh good, you’re awake,” the woman says, and then the wolf becomes a man with golden eyes and Geno faints again. When he wakes up, the woman–Vero, she tells him–explains it to him: he’s become a werewolf. He was turned, and it saved his life because of werewolf healing, but now the wolf lives under his skin and he can’t have his old life back, not fully. If it’ll change his life forever, he remembers the man–the werewolf–saying, and he’d said yes. The man who’d turned him watches him from the corner as Vero speaks, his head tilted at an angle that is distinctly canine. Geno can only process about half of it, but he’s alive, so he thinks that’s a step up from where he would be otherwise. Then Vero leaves to get him water, and the man stays. 

“You turn me,” Geno says, as confirmation. Maybe all the wolves have gold eyes. But he thinks he remembers these. 

The man nods. “I’m Sidney,” he says, and his voice is the same, even and calm, even as he says, “I’m sorry,” like it catches in his throat, and leaves. 

* * *

Sidney stays away from their newest pack member. He makes sure that he’s settled, of course, and gives him to Gonch to mentor and apparently asks incessant questions about him, and sometimes he shifts and hovers near him, out of sight but close enough to smell, to know he’s there and alive. Sidney’s never turned someone else. He hadn’t meant to ever turn anyone, and not like that. He loves his wolf, has lived with it under his skin since he was born, but he knows not everyone feels the same, and if he put someone in that position…he doesn’t regret saving Evgeni’s life, but he knows that he’s probably not welcome. That’s fine. He understands. As long as Evgeni follows his lead as alpha, then he doesn’t need to like Sid. Even if, as Sidney watches and learns about him, he seems like someone Sid would like to like him–loud and open and friendly and adapting to his new life and just large, in every possible way. 

* * *

It takes Geno a long time to realize Sidney’s avoiding him, and longer still to care. He has a lot to learn about the wolf, and it feels like taking his first steps again, like learning yet another language. He has to learn the pack structure, and how he fits into it, how it works. As if coming to America wasn’t enough, he sometimes thinks bitterly, but he tries not to dwell on it. This new life isn’t bad, he thinks. And the wolf is–it’s like the best high and falling in love all at once. 

So he’s got other things to think about, until he starts integrating with the pack more and learning about how it works. When he sits in the dining room and sees how the pack moves around their alpha, and how Sidney moves between them. Geno had barely had a sense of him, that first night, but now he sees–well, he wouldn’t have guessed him as more than a man. An attractive one, to be sure, built like a tank with pretty lips and massive shoulders and tuggable curls and an impressive ass and those golden eyes, but probably not one Geno would be interested in. He’s so collected, and bland except for when the pups come out and he starts to play. 

“Why is he the alpha?” he asks Horny, who’s becoming one of his good friends here. “Seems so…not wolfish.” He’s seen others who look like wolves even in human form, and some with a wolf’s temper and aggression. Sidney doesnt look like any of that. 

Horny laughs. “Sid? He’s the only choice. You’ll see.” 

* * *

Geno doesn’t see until the first hunt he’s allowed to go on as a wolf. He stands with everyone else in the pack, and waits until the full moon crests the trees–then Sidney nods, and suddenly he’s a wolf. Geno hadn’t realized how hard that was until now, when he’s shifting and it feels like effort, every inch and stretch of it. But eventually he’s a wolf too, and they start to run and everything’s so clear as a wolf, but also it’s a mix of wolf and human thoughts and Geno trips over it a few times, sometimes physically. Gonch pushes him back up, gentle, then harder; the pack is baying at the moon and so does Geno. Ahead of him, the black of Sidney’s wolf is a shadow intent on its prey, and there’s none of the separation between wolf and human Geno’s struggling with. The pack runs, and the pack hunts, and when the deer is brought down Sidney’s wolf’s teeth are red with blood. Geno dreams about that, later. It’s not a bad dream. 

* * *

“Getting better at the scent thing, know you’re there,” comes Evgeni’s call, and Sid takes that for the warning it is and slinks in. He shifts as he walks, though he wishes he didn’t have to; everything’s easier as a wolf. Evgeni watches him from the chair where he’s been flipping through some books of lore. He’s all long lines and warmth and Sid shouldn’t think about him like that, but he does. He’d done something unforgivable to Evgeni. That doesn’t deserve forgiveness. 

Evgeni fixes his gaze on Sid, unexpectedly sharp. “You been avoiding me.” 

“I’ve been staying out of your way,” Sid corrects. He doesn’t sit down. For once, he’s taller than Evgeni. “I can avoid you, if you’d like.” 

Evgeni tilts his head at Sid–a wolf’s motion. It’s sinking into him. “You not like me, Sidney? I do something wrong?”

“What? No.” 

“Then, why avoid? Or stay out of way, same thing.” Geno waves a hand. Sidney can’t help but look, notice how large it is. “Afraid?”

Sidney feels the wolf nipping at him, wanting to claim and rage and demand that this is Sidney’s pack. He takes a breath, pushes it down. “I didn’t want to make things harder for you,” he explains.

“Alpha staying away makes things easier?” 

“You had people to help. I figured you wouldn’t want to see me.” 

Evgeni gets to his feet. It makes him taller than Sid, and he pushes away the instinct to wrestle him to the floor, assert dominance. “Aren’t you alpha? Shouldn’t that matter?” 

“I wasn’t your alpha when I turned you!” Sidney snaps, and it comes out with more of the wolf in it than he’d like. He curls his hands into fists until it’s gone. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for that. As long as we can be pack, that won’t be a–”

“Sidney,” Evgeni cuts him off, and Sidney lets out a low growl at that. Evgeni ignores him. “Not mad.” he gives a little smile. “You say it change my life, and you right. Not for worse, though.” He flexes his hand, like he’s feeling the claws underneath.  “Don’t think the wolf could ever be for worse.” 

Sidney lifts his eyes to Evgeni’s, alight. He’s not sure anyone else has ever said it quite like that. “I don’t either,” he says, a confession, and Evgeni’s smile grows. 

* * *

Sidney, when he stops avoiding Geno, is anything but bland. He’s chatty and a dork and a responsible leader and a quick thinker, and he’s got basically the same sense of humor as Geno. Horny was right–he did see why Sidney was the only choice for Alpha, and not just because his wolf lived so closely under his skin. It’s hard to stay away from him. Hard to remember that there might be a reason that he should, though he’s not sure that there is. 

* * *

It’s after a hunt, and Geno’s belly is filled with deer even when he shifts back and he’s in his room, trying to convince himself to sleep–maybe he’ll shift, it can be easier like that. It won’t be easier, because in his mind’s eye there’s Sid with his head tilted up to the full moon, and Sid’s eyes hot with the challenge of the hunt, and Sidney Sidney Sidney, but he can try. But then there’s a scratch at his door, and when Geno opens it the big black wolf is there, and when he grins at Geno there’s still blood on his teeth and the hunt in his gold eyes. 

As Geno watches he becomes Sid, and he’s somehow not more of a man in that moment, as he stalks forward. “Sid?” Geno asks. “What you want?” 

Sidney shakes his head. He looks like he does when he wants to shift again, because Sidney finds wolves easier than humans. But then he looks up at Geno, and once again all Geno can see are those golden eyes. “I won’t change your life again,” he says, like Geno will understand what that means. “I made one decision for you. I won’t do it twice.” 

Somehow, Geno does understand. “I’m tell you,” he sighs, and he has the wolf in him too, to meet Sidney halfway. “Good change. And I make the decision.” He reaches down and Sidney pushes up, hopeful and intent and that’s a different hunger in his gaze than Geno’s ever seen before. “Like I make this one,” he decides, and kisses Sidney. 


	33. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, historical AU

They pick up young master Oleksiak on a French merchanter bound for the new world. Unfortunately for him, the ship he was on carried gold and flew flags of the wrong country. Fortunately for him, he must have said something right as the pirates dragged him from his quarters and onto their ship, because instead of the instant death he feared he was in front of the captain. Or maybe he was not so lucky; he’s read the broadsheets and he knows what ship he’s on. Captain Crosby sits in a chair, as straight-backed and formal as the tales said, with his huge Russian first mate at one side of the chair, a hand casually on the saber at his belt. “I’m British!” Jamie says in English, before he can think. “Not French! Before you kill me, you should know.”  The Captain blinks, then looks to the side at his first mate, then at Jamie again. “Why would you think we’d kill you?” he asks, as if honestly confused. The man holding Jamie’s arm scoffs. “I’d kill a Spaniard,” he says, and the captain smiles and the first mate lets out a low chuckle. “Well,” the captain says. “Lucky for you you’re not a Spaniard, isn’t it?” 

* * *

They don’t kill Jamie. It seems like a close call, but then the captain had shrugged and said something that sounded like, “he’s only a boy, what am I to do?” and that was that. The Russia murmured something then, and the captain laughs. The Russian scowls harder. “Just because he’s tall doesn’t mean he’s a threat,” Captain Crosby points out, patting the Russian on his arm. “Otherwise I’d have killed you when we first met.” The Russian turns his scowl on Crosby, but it doesn’t stay a scowl long, softening into something fond. “You might have tried,” he replies, teasing–the sort of insubordination that on other ships Jamie’s been on might have led to a whipping, but this captain smiles again, and dismisses Jamie with a wave. The Russian starts scowling at Jamie again. 

* * *

They put Jamie in a cabin, and give him the run of the ship. Slowly, he gets to know the “not a pirate ship we’re  _privateers;_ the captain makes sure our papers are in order” ship. It’s as tightly run as the stories say, and faster than any ship Jamie’s been on. It’s crew is a motley mix of colonials and foreigners; there are at least four different languages spoken aboard, and everyone seems to be friends, the captain not least of all. Jamie’s never been aboard a ship like this. He likes to watch it work. If he ever wants to write his stories of the sea, he thinks this is where he’d start–with Captain Crosby standing next to the helmsman, his head bent over the compass and his maps and his first mate like a shadow next to him. 

* * *

He gets to know the crew slowly, as they travel to the Bahamas where they’ll be letting Jamie off, apparently. He’s always been good at making friends, knows how to look innocuous despite his height. But he has to admit he’s still most fascinated by the Captain, and he can’t help following him a little, seeing how he works. He’s too large to be subtle, so he’s not surprised when a week in, the captain stops him from going to the card game he usually spends his nights at. “Are you interested in seacraft?” the captain asks. That’s not entirely what Jamie’s interested in, because he wants the stories of the sea more than the sea itself, but he nods. The Captain’s smile splits. “Would you like to learn?” he asks, and Jamie nods again, more eager. Captain Crosby is a legend; he certainly wants to learn from him. So he starts to follow him around more obviously, and Crosby is a good teacher. Malkin’s always there too, though, and if most of the crew has warmed up to him Malkin’s gone the other way. 

* * *

There’s another sail on the horizon, a few weeks into the journey. It gets called down from the bird’s nest, and then Crosby’s on the deck, looking out. His grin isn’t nice, when he sets down his spyglass. “The Flyer,” he tells Malkin.

Malkin’s smile isn’t nice. “Was getting bored,” he says, and turns to roar at the crew.

Crosby turns to Jamie. “How are you with a sword?” he asks. Jamie shrugs. “Passable,” He says, which is false modesty and clearly Crosby can tell. So he suits up with them for their pitched sea battle with the Flyers, who are proper pirates and not privateers, and Jamie fights well but it’s hard to fight when he’s also trying not to stare at Crosby and Malkin, who are fighting together and it’s like they’re two bodies joined together, a two-headed monster, though Crosby fights like he’s been classically trained in the sword from birth and Malkin like he’s learned in a barroom brawl.

Except then there’s a lucky shot in and it gets Crosby in the side and he falls, and–the crew of the Penguin goes berserk, and then the Flyer is away and Crosby is lying in his bed losing blood and Malkin is kneeling at his side, their hands clasped and eyes locked, as people scramble for the doctor around them. Jamie doesn’t know what to do, so he doesn’t move. “It’s just a scratch,” Crosby tells Malkin, with the fondness in his voice he always uses.

Malkin shakes his head. “Sidney,” he breathes, and suddenly this is voyeuristic. “Sid, I’m–stop scaring me. Is order.” 

“You don’t give the orders here,” Crosby chuckles, and coughs, and Malkin’s face is white as Crosby’s when the doctor comes and shoos everyone but Malkin away. 

* * *

Crosby’s convalescence is slow and he’s clearly bad at it–the stories the crew tell are legion; apparently Crosby is injured a lot. because Jamie can read and doesn’t have other duties, he spends even more time in the Captain’s cabin, reading to him. He’d known Crosby was an educated man, but he hadn’t realized his interest went this deep; there are books worthy of Oxford on his shelves, even if they put Jamie to sleep when he reads them. He likes his stories more modern. Malkin is there plenty too, though he never stays long when Jamie starts to read and always glares at Jamie or the book in his hand like they’ve insulted his mother. When Jamie’s not there, or coming or going, he’s hovering and fussing like a mother hen and sometimes just quietly sitting next to Sidney, talking about ship’s business and looking like Jamie’s parents there, discussing the manor’s day to day life. Once, Jamie comes in quietly to see Crosby asleep and Malkin knelt next to his bed, his head resting on Crosby’s hand. It looks like he’s praying. Then his shoulders shake, and Jamie realizes he’s crying. He retreats, and doesn’t mention it. 

* * *

Jamie’s going back to his hammock one day from Crosby’s cabin when suddenly he’s being shoved into the wall and there’s a dagger at his throat. He’s not stupid, so he freezes. Malkin’s not as big as him, but he’s still big, and he’s damn good with his sword. “What you want to do, with Sid?” Malkin demands. Jamie…has no idea how to answer that. 

“Reading?” he tries, and Malkin shakes his head. 

“Reading, all that–he talking about going home! About  _leaving_. He never talks about that before you come!” Malkin’s eyes narrow. “You think you take him from us? He meant to be here. All your books, lorldy talk–they not matter, in the end. He happy on the seas. With Penguin.”

Slowly, Jamie puts up his hands. “I’m not trying to take anyone away,” he says, hoping his honesty comes through. “I just want to go home. And I like hearing the captain’s stories. If he’s talking about going home, that’s from him, not me.” Malkin’s limbs shudder and his face goes white again like it had when Crosby had fallen, and it gives Jamie the opportunity to slip away. 

* * *

Jamie doesn’t want to tell tales, but he also really doesn’t want to get threatened again, so he asks Crosby about if he had mentioned going home. Crosby makes a horrified face. “I told Geno it might be nice for him to see my home,” he says, “Not to leave the sea.” The last words are spoken like a curse. “Why?” Jamie must make a face, because Crosby’s voice goes sharp, and the order whips out. “Tell me.” So he does, or the bare bones of it, and Crosby’s face goes through too many changes for Jamie to number. 

“He wouldn’t have hurt you, really,” he tells Jamie, when Jamie’s done. Jamie’s not sure of that. If Malkin had thought Jamie would hurt Crosby, he’d not want to lay odds on him coming out unharmed. “Now, go tell him to come in here. Please,” he adds, like it was anything but a command. So Jamie does, and then he leaves and goes very far away. Then he decides that he’s not a coward, and if Malkin isn’t pleased with him he’ll fight it out with honor. When he gets back to the room, he can’t hear anything, so he softly pushes the door open to make sure everyone’s unharmed. 

Everyone is. Crosby is sitting up on the bed, and Malkin is perched on it next to him, his head buried in Crosby’s neck. Crosby’s fingers are twining in Malkin’s hair, his eyes closed as he rests his temple against Malkin’s head, and they’re clutching each other so tightly that it once more seems like they’ve become one person. Jamie closes the door again. When he writes his stories of the Penguin, he thinks he can leave this just for them. 

* * *

(then Geno and Jamie become great friends when Geno’s not being jealous and insecure and Jamie goes home and writes novels based on the Penguin and Geno and Sid rule the high seas for many more years until they happily retire). 


	34. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, Olympics AU

Sid thought he was going to be a hockey player. He’d planned on being the next Gretzky, the next Lemeiux. But then hockey practice had gotten nasty and he refused not to be on the ice, and ice dancing was the next best thing. That was true until, suddenly, it was the best thing, and the only thing. Ice dancing, which was the music and the ice and his partner and best friend and all of that mixed together. She works as hard as him and gets his drive and together, they’re the best of the best, and then they’re at the olympics and favored to win for the second time, and it’s everything Sid had dreamed of. 

* * *

Sidney meets Geno, captain of the Pens during most of the year and current Russian hockey player, at the Olympic village for some reason, even though Canadians and Russians don’t usually mix and Sidney’s still bitter about the Cup last year and Geno really shouldn’t be even thinking about half of Canada’s current golden couple, let alone talking with him. Let alone flirting with him. He doesn’t expect it to go anywhere, because everyone knows Sid and his partner are in love or something like that, but it’s fun to flirt with an attractive man who gets the competitive drive and what it means to bear that responsibility and also knows his hockey. 

* * *

Sidney’s partner is relentless in her teasing. Despite the rumors and the roles they play when they skate, there’s nothing romantic between them other than one awkward kiss when they were thirteen, she’s his everything but not that. Which means she gets full rein to tease him constantly. The teasing is easy, but it’s the other parts that are harder–the parts where Sid can feel himself falling and despite the flirting, he can’t tell if Geno feels the same way; at the least, he can’t imagine Geno wants more than an Olympics hook up, and Sidney doesn’t do casual.

* * *

The night Sidney and his partner win gold, Geno’s in the crowd. It’s a gorgeous routine, best in the world, full of ache and need and love, and Geno aches too, for the story and for Sid, who touches his partner with all the casual intimacy of a lover. He’s not sure if that’s harder, or seeing them when their scores are announced and how SIdney lights up and hugs his partner, kisses her hair and holds her like they’re the only thing in the world right then. Geno claps hard, because he’s excited for Sidney, he is, even though seeing that is hard. 

* * *

Which means he’s confused, when that night Sidney shows up at his door, dismissively telling Geno that one of the Russian ice dancers let him in. “Should be celebrating,” Geno says, wary. It’s hard not to be, when Sidney’s there in front of him, his gold medal still around his neck and his hair messy and falling in his eyes. Geno wants to brush it away, wants to use the ribbon of the gold medal to tug him closer. Wants a lot he can’t have. Except, “Yes, I should be,” Sidney agrees, and kisses him. Geno’s not sure what it means, doesn’t want to think the worst of Sidney, but he can’t find it in him to say no when Sidney kisses him, when they fall onto the bed, when Sidney’s naked and there’s all that skin and muscle to kiss. 

* * *

That’s not the only time they have sex. Geno’s still playing, so it’s on his schedule–Sidney is as strictly adherent to Geno’s practice schedule as he is to his own–but they fuck and it’s good, except for how each time after Geno pulls away, turns away from Sid’s goodbye kiss and turns grumpy at the mention of anything outside the walls of whoever’s room they’re in. Sid doesn’t get it, he complains to his partner, as they head out to watch some curling. He likes Geno, and he’d thought Geno liked him, and the sex is good, and if Geno just wants to hook up he’s being weird about that too. SId wants more than hook up, he knows that, but he can’t think of that when Geno’s being so cool. 

* * *

Sid’s partner is having none of this bullshit. No one messes with her partner and from what she’s seen and heard, Geno is toying with Sid’s heart. So she deposits Sidney at the women’s hockey game, where he will cheerfully scream his heart out for as long as it lasts, and goes to find Geno. Geno’s clearly surprised, clearly concerned, and just as clearly confused when she snaps at him for messing with Sidney. But his back goes up and he glares back, which she guesses she can respect. Sidney wouldn’t like anyone he could bulldoze over. 

“I’m not know what arrangement you have,” Geno retorts, “But–you get all of him. You not know what it’s like, to only have sex.” She gapes, then scoffs, because honestly.  _men_. She needs to have a word with Sidney. She thought she’d taught him more about communication than this. 

* * *

Even after the whole dating confusion is cleared up, it’s still not easy. Sidney’s partnership is still so encompassing, and Geno is possessive and it’s not easy for him, to know that his boyfriend’s emotional anchor isn’t him–especially with the necessity of secretiveness and the rumors around them. That she will always be as important. Sid doesn’t always get that, either; they’re separate in his mind, Geno and his partner. It takes a lot of negotiating and forcing Sidney to listen when Geno talks about his jealousy and what he needs and Geno learning to accept Sidney’s partner and how important she is and always will be to him. But at the next Olympics, Geno’s waiting after their gold medal skate, and Sidney’s already got an arm around his partner but he draws Geno in too and he has all his favorite people in one place and in that moment, everything is perfect. 


	35. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, high school teacher + Pens superstar AU

Geno started teaching mainly because he didn’t know what else to do–fresh from Russia on a student visa that was quickly running out, without clear marketable skills other than his fluency in his mother tongue. But he’d been looking at job listings listlessly when he saw the fancy prep school advertising for a Russian teacher, and well, he figured that he could put all those years tutoring in college to use. He likes it more than he expected–teenagers are snots but he’s not much older than them and he can relate to them pretty well, and he likes teaching, and he’s good at it. It’s not the dreams of a famous, grand life he’d had as a kid, but no one lives up to that, and he’s not sorry for it. 

* * *

Geno only has a minor freak out when he realizes that the Lemieux in his class is Le Magnifique’s daughter. This is a fancy prep school; local celebrities’ kids come here sometimes. Just because he had a poster of Mario on his wall as a kid doesn’t mean he can’t be professional. It helps that Alexa is a good kid, quick witted and a little loud but obviously raised by hockey players who never gave an inch if they could take a mile. She’s taking Russian because she’s been around Russians playing hockey her whole life and she wants to understand them, she tells Geno, and also she’s already fluent in real French so why would she take it now? She’s interested enough that she joins the Russian club Geno has after school, for people more interested in modern culture and politics than just getting a grade. It’s after one of those meetings, late enough that the kids have to be picked up separately and Geno likes to see them out and make sure they’re all picked up even if they can handle themselves, the she’s picked up not by her mom, like normal, or her dad, who Geno’s adjusted himself to, but by Sidney Crosby, who’s a whole other thing altogether. 

* * *

Sid might have moved out of Mario’s, but he still likes to help out when he can, as continued payback, so he’s happy to pick up Alexa after Russian club when Nathalie’s busy, even if it means he’s rushing from practice and so is a little late. Alexa’s talking with a tall guy about Sid’s age when he pulls up, and if her teacher stayed late because he stayed an extra few minutes on the ice helping out the rookies, he has to apologize, really. Even if Alexa rolls her eyes as she introduces him to Mr. Malkin, with an added ‘like he doesn’t know who you are,’ which is fair because it’s very clear Mr. Malkin does, from the way he’s staring. Sid’s used to it, and Mr. Malkin recovers quickly and shakes Sid’s hand and takes his apology with a grin and bit of a chirp at Sid’s priorities. He seems like a good guy, Sid points out to Alexa when they’re in the car, and Alexa gives him another eye roll and corrects him to, “He’s the best, Sid.” 

* * *

After Geno’s quiet freakout over meeting Sidney Crosby, he doesn’t really think about it. He’s met hockey players before, and maybe Sidney’s his favorite, but that doesn’t change anything. It wasn’t epochal in his life. It does make it slightly less surprising when he’s in a bar with some friends, ordering at the bar, when someone leans against the bar next to him and it’s Sidney Crosby. Crosby grins at Geno’s surprise in a way that makes Geno wonder if he’s really as blandly nice as everyone says. He is a hockey player, after all. 

“Mr. Malkin, right?” Sidney asks, and Geno nods, collects himself. 

“Geno,” He corrects, because it’s weird otherwise. Then, because he has to, “Good game tonight,” he comments, and Sidney really grins, clearly still reveling in it. 

“Thanks,” he says, and Geno has to add, 

“Kessel’s goal was clear goalie interference, though.”

Sid scoffs, and then he’s off. They talk for a long time, long enough that it only ends when one of SId’s teammates comes to collect the round of drinks he was sent to get. Sid rolls his eyes fondly at the rookie, then tells Geno, “This was fun. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the–” 

“Sid,” the rookie whines, not too far off from one of Geno’s students, and Sidney laughs and waves to Geno as he’s dragged away. 

* * *

Geno thinks that’s the end of it again, but then a few days later during Russian club Alexa drops a piece of paper with a number on it on his desk. “Sid says that he was serious about hearing about the power play, and if that’s a euphemism I don’t want to know. I’m not your go-between.” Then she sits down, and Geno has Sidney Crosby’s phone number. He’s not sure what that means, but clearly he has to text him. So he does. 

* * *

They’re friends. Sid doesn’t have many friends who don’t revolve around hockey, so he’s not entirely sure how it works, but he’s pretty sure this is how non-hockey friendships work. They text. Geno sends Sid funny pictures he finds on the internet and stories about stupid shit his students do. Sid sends Geno pictures about whatever city he’s in that day and stories about stupid shit his teammates do. They agree that the level of stupidity is equivalent, but at least the teenagers might grow out of it. It’s nice and uncomplicated and everyone in Sid’s life approves of him having something outside of hockey. Even if they do talk about hockey a lot. Even if, when they manage to meet up for drinks when their schedules line up or when Sid sees him when he picks up Alexa, Sid’s heart does something funny. 

* * *

This isn’t just friendship, Geno knows. Friendships don’t become this all-consuming this fast, don’t have Geno scrambling for his phone whenever it buzzes, hoping for a text from Sid. Friendships don’t make Geno feel ten feet tall whenever Sid smiles at him. Friendships aren’t idle daydreams of him and Sid and some stupid kids of their own. Geno would feel pathetic, but Sid texts him back just as fast, and Sid seems as eager to talk to him. Maybe it’s just the weird closeness of a hockey bromance, but Geno doesn’t think so. He just–doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know how to take the risk in a way that wouldn’t drive Sidney away. 

* * *

Sidney invites Geno to family skate. He is in fact aware that’s not normal, that Geno isn’t family per se, but he doesn’t have anything else and he wants to hang out with Geno and won’t have any other time, so it makes sense. Flower laughs quite a lot when Sid tells him that. “Well, I’m excited to meet your teacher,” Flower tells him when he’s finished laughing, with the glint in his eye that never bodes well for Sid. “I’ve heard so much about him.” 

“Be nice,” Sid warns, knowing its a hopeless cause. It is a little hopeless, but the team actually does, more or less–or, they give Sid a lot of  _looks_ , but Geno manages to charm all of them and they don’t seem to give him too much shit, other than one time Flower and Tanger trap him in a conversation that Sid can’t hear. Geno comes out of it smiling, though. Geno comes out of the whole thing smiling. Smiling at Sid, mainly, and Sid barely feels the cold on the ice anymore but now he thinks he’s actually warm. 

* * *

“You’re going to have to make the first move, but he’s there,” Letang had told Geno, when he’d gotten cornered by Canadians. Geno hadn’t known what to expect–had been a little worried he was going to be warned away, because Sid had told him about his closest friends on the team–but it wasn’t this. 

“Please make the first move,” Fleury had added. “I can’t take him giggling at his phone anymore.”

Geno thinks about that, and so after, when Sid follows Geno to his house because Sid’s leaving the next morning for a week long roadie and they want to hang out more before then, Geno takes Sid’s hand. Even he must know that’s not normal friendship behavior. Sure enough, Sid’s eyes go wide, and he looks at Geno like he’s just realizing a lot. Geno knows he’s done for when that just makes him feel fonder. “Tell me if you don’t want,” he warns, then leans in for a kiss. Sid, apparently, does want. Quite a lot. 

* * *

Alexa takes full credit for their relationship. Geno likes to argue with her that he deserves some. Both of them agree Sid deserves no credit whatsoever, even though Sid protests that he gave Geno his number, doesn’t that count? (No. It doesn’t. Geno is sure of this, and happy to convince Sid of it at length). 


	36. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, goalie Sid + Captain Geno AU

Sid knows he’s difficult. Even for goalies, he’s notorious. Weird and persnickety and his routines are notorious. But he’s also  _good_. He’s really good, and he knows it. He went first in his draft.  But the curse of the goalie is that it doesn’t matter how good he is, he can’t be the whole team. And so when his first team loses, and loses again, he’s not surprised when the trade happens. He let them down, after all. The goalie’s supposed to hold the team up, and he didn’t. So he doesn’t make a fuss, says all the right things to the press, and goes to Pittsburgh determined to be the best. 

* * *

You always take care of your goalie. That’s one of the first bits of advice Mario had given Geno, when he had taken the captaincy. A goalie makes or breaks the team, and keeping them sane and centered is the most important. So when Sidney Crosby gets traded to the Pens, Geno wants to make sure he’s comfortable there. He’s one of the best goalies Geno’s ever seen. He’s the Pen’s ticket to a deep playoff run. Geno’s heard stories about how difficult he is, so Geno is expecting being nice to him to be difficult. But it’s not. Sidney’s weird, sure, and awkward, and he’s got his routines–all goalies do–and he’s a little closed off, but he’s a nice guy. It’s not a hardship to make sure he’s settling in. It’s especially not a hardship when they start to win. 

* * *

Pittsburgh is different than Sid expected. For one, when he messes up, sometimes he gets pulled but it doesn’t mean he’s not playing for the next games. But more–he likes people there. The Canadian contingent–Tanger, one of his d-men, and Duper and Flower, the forwards–have taken him under their wing completely in a way that Sid doesn’t always know how to handle but is nice. And then there’s Geno–who’s definitely going above and beyond what a captain needs to do to get a new player settled in. It’s hard not to fall into his loud laugh or how he yells at people who mess with Sid’s routines or how he gets into fights when players get into Sid’s crease. It’s too easy to smile back at him, to think a little too hard about his hands and how good he is on his skates. 

* * *

They lose game 8 of the Division series 2-1 on a puck off of Sid’s skate, and Sidney looks devastated. Geno’s not feeling great himself, and normally after a bad game like this he’d take some time to himself before talking to the team so he doesn’t lash out at them, but Sid’s sitting in his stall with his pads half on and his head bent over his knees and his whole body curled in what looks like defeat. Geno can’t just leave him there. Sid’s gotten them this far; he can’t let his goalie down. He goes over, stands in front of Sid until Sid has to look up. He looks, Geno notices guiltily, unfairly pretty in his pain. “Sorry,” Sid says, before Geno can say anything. “Geno, I’m–fuck, I’m sorry. If I’m playing the next game, I’ll be better. I promise.” It’s about what Geno had expected by now–Sid takes loses hard, internalizes them probably more than is healthy–but still the passion in his voice goes right to Geno’s heart. “

Of course you will. No one works harder than you.” If there’s one thing Geno’s learned since Sidney came to the Pens, it’s that. “I’m not blame you, though. We should score for you.” Sidney shakes his head. “You want be whole team, Sid?” 

“If I could,” Sid retorts, and there’s a smile. Geno could leave then–should, probably. But Sid is smiling at him, and Geno can’t leave. Instead he sits down next to Sid, lets their shoulders brush. 

* * *

They win. They win the Cup, and Geno feels incandescent with it, weightless, like he could lift the Cup forever and ever. He circles around, comes back to it–Sid’s holding it now, staring at it like it’s the most precious thing in the world. It is–they are, Geno thinks, and he’s so overjoyed right now that realization doesn’t even scare him like it should. He hits Sid’s side hard, and Sid laughs wildly as Geno wraps his arms around Sid and the cup both. 

“You get us here,” Geno tells him, fervent. It’s a team effort, but Sid stood behind them and held them up the whole time. Sidney laughs again, and wriggles out of Geno’s arms so he can hand the cup back to Geno. Their hands brush on the cup. 

“No, captain,” Sid says, and their eyes meet and Sid’s eyes are gold and bright as the rink lights and Geno wants to live in this moment forever. “You did.” 

* * *

The Cup party continues out of the rink at Mario’s house. Sidney goes in a haze of glory and joy, and he’s dragged between friends and there’s a lot of people kissing him all the time, which he’s drunk and happy about. He’s getting more sober by the time he comes out of the bathroom in the house, and is ready to set off downstairs to fix that when he sees Geno is standing there–standing there, and watching him, and Sid doesn’t get the light in his eyes until Geno slides a hand under his chin to tilt it up. Sid didn’t expect this, hadn’t ever really imagined it was a possibility–but he tries to telegraph  _yes_ as hard as he can, and then Geno leans down and kisses him. it’s nothing like the exuberant overflowing of joy from downstairs. This is gentle and demanding all at once and Sid could sink into it forever. “Geno?” he breathes, when they have to breathe. 

“Thank you,” Geno replies, which isn’t the response Sid really wants, but then Geno rests their foreheads together. 

“I–thank you for being here. For being with me.” Someone calls Geno’s name from downstairs. Geno doesn’t move. “You–we talk, yes?” he asks. Sid nods. Geno lets go, and goes downstairs. 

* * *

They don’t talk. They text over the offseason, a bit, but Geno’s in Russia and Sid’s in Cole Harbor and they text pictures and inanities and never say anything about the kiss. It feels like a dream, to Sid–he’d wanted it for the better part of a season, first because Geno was showing kindness to him and then later just because Geno, and it makes more sense for it to be a drunk, Cup-high dream than a reality. So he doesn’t say anything, and neither does Geno.

* * *

Geno only knows Sid is back because Flower tells him. He’s spent the off-season torn between elation–the cup and Sidney and he can see season after season to come–and despair–Sid hasn’t said anything what if he was drunk and didn’t actually want it and now he’ll ask for a trade and none of those successes will be there. But he can’t bring it up, not without seeing Sid; he’s the captain and that’s not fair to Sid, to use that power. So he waits until Sid’s back, and then he goes to his house. He has a whole speech rehearsed, like he does the important media things he needs to get the English right for, but then–then Sid’s there, solid and sharp-eyed and looking like he bulked up even more over the summer, and Geno’s struck dumb. “Geno?” Sid asks, like had at Mario’s. 

“Sid.” Geno steps in when Sid steps aside, lets the door close behind him. “Good to see you.” 

“Good to see you too.” Sid’s watching him warily, like he’s coming towards Sid’s net. Geno feels a little like that, but he’s as good as goal scorer as Sid is a goalie. He’s not afraid. 

“Sid, what we do, end of last season–you want?” 

“Want what?” Sid asks, still wary. Still like the goalie who had come to them at the beginning of the season, unsure of his welcome or who could want him. 

Geno just has to say it. “Kiss,’ He says. “You–I know, I’m captain, but if you not want, were drunk, you just say, I leave you alone–”

“What did you mean by the kiss?” Sid demands. “Was it just–what do you want, Geno?” he asks, and he sounds almost helpless with it. 

Geno holds out his hands. “I want–want to take care of you,” he says. “Want everything with you. Even annoying rituals.” 

Sid snorts, but he’s smiling. “Even my superstitions?” 

“Everything,” Geno says, and takes a step forward. Sid doesn’t retreat, just watches him come, solid as he is on the ice but his eyes are hotter than Geno’s ever seen them. 

“You do take pretty good care of me,” Sid agrees, still smiling, and Geno steps into his arms and tugs him closer. 

“I take best care of you,” Geno corrects him. “My job, as captain. Take best care of goalie.” He talks right over Sid’s protest. “My job as man..” he slides his hands down Sid’s sides, to his ass. “Take best care of Sid.” He adds in a waggle of his eyebrows, and Sid chokes on a yelp.

“Geno!” he laughs, but he’s tugging Geno down for a kiss, and Geno sees those seasons and seasons stretching out, streaking over the ice with Sid a solid wall behind him. 


	37. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, model Sid AU

Sidney and Geno have known each other since middle school. They basically grew up together, but they weren’t really friends. They just knew of each other, and were on a lot of the same sports teams and the like. Geno was popular, and Sid was the golden boy of the school, and that didn’t really mix. Geno would tease Sid, sometimes meanly; Sidney would condescend and whine right back. It never rose to the level of a real problem, or even a really concentrated dislike, but it wasn’t friendly. And maybe if Geno sometimes zoned out in class staring at the curls at the nape of Sid’s neck and wondering what it would be like to brush those aside, no one had to know. And if Sid sometimes stole a glance at Geno in the weight room and wondered about the strength in his lanky limbs, he kept it to himself. They graduated and that was that. 

* * *

Sidney never expected to be a model. He thought he was going to graduate college and maybe become a physical therapist or something. But when he somehow became one, he was clearly going to be the best at it he could be, and that hard work pays off until he’s built himself a niche in the market. He can’t really do high fashion except in very specific circumstances–he’s basically the antithesis of the androgyny those clothes usually require–but he does athletics and anything that requires action shots, and it’s enough that even his (he claims undeserved) rep for being difficult to work with doesn’t deter people. He’s successful. It’s enough. So when his high school reunion comes around, he has to go (according to Taylor, at least). 

* * *

No one expects Sidney Crosby to show up to their reunion, Geno least of all. He’s got a lot of complicated feelings about Sidney, tied up in jealousy at his success–Geno’s a vet, and it’s very respectable and he loves it but Sid’s Succeeded with a capital S–and shame about how he’d acted in high school and the simmer attraction that’s never gone away that always sparks up when he sees a picture of Sidney. He figures it won’t matter because he’ll never see him again. Then Sidney shows up to the reunion, wearing a suit that probably really was tailored so that his ass looks a second away from breaking free and with a sharp haircut that’s hot but makes Geno miss his old curls and looking like every success story ever and smiling that crooked smile that Geno had used to hate to love, and Geno can’t help sidling over to him at the punch table. Sidney sees him, and before Geno can say anything he smiles at Geno–a different smile, not the one he’d been giving his old friends, something cool and perfected like he gave the camera. Anything’s better than indifference, so “Nice to see you make time for us,” Geno says, and in high school Sid might have pouted at that, now Sid’s smile doesn’t falter. 

* * *

They keep bantering all through the reunion, and the smart thing would probably be to ignore each other but they have a lot of the same friends and also Sidney’s not sixteen anymore and he can handle Geno’s teasing. Also, he can handle the fact that Geno grew up and up and he’s big in all the right ways and he looks nothing like the skinny, sculpted models Sid spends his time with and it works really well for Sidney. And more, he’s learned that people like how his body looks, and that they like how clothes look on it, and that when people look at him like Geno is looking at him even when he’s snarking at him they want one thing. 

* * *

Long story short, by the end of the night, they end up back in Sid’s hotel room, and they fall into each other with ten years of pent up teenaged hormones. When they’re done, Geno looks over at Sidney, stretched out on the bed and totally confident in his nakedness, looking mussed and gorgeous and now Geno knows that without gel his hair still has a hint of those curls that haunted teenaged Geno’s dreams. He thinks about saying something, but then Sidney rolls over, and he gets distracted by watching all that skin. 

“Are you going to stay?” Sidney asks, and he sounds neutral again.

Geno hates when he sounds neutral. He liked it when Sidney was panting his name and curses in the same breath. “Yes,” he decides, because he’ll get that again. So he stays the night, and in the morning they fuck again, and then Geno invites himself to breakfast because Sidney doesn’t object. 

* * *

Sidney’s mystified by Geno. Not Geno wanting to fuck him–but Geno wanting to wait around. He’d thought Geno was there because he thought Sid was hot and because he was jealous, but generally men who thought that were ready to leave once the deed was done. They didn’t stick around in the mornings. They didn’t follow Sid to breakfast and joke about his strict diet and tell stories about his kittens. Sid had always known, theoretically at least, that Geno was funny and charming and actually a nice guy, but he’d never really had it turned on him before. When it is–well, Sid’s been flirted with by professionals, but they don’t have anything on Geno showing him a picture of him holding a minuscule puppy in his two massive hands. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Geno’s always confused him, but this throws Sidney in a way not many things do. 

* * *

They’re nearly finished with breakfast when Geno finally gets his courage up. Sidney’s been smiling at him, not that cool camera smile but something real, and Geno hadn’t realized how much he wanted that until he had it. So he has to put everything on the table. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For how I treated you, as a kid. I was…” He doesn’t know how he’s going to finish that sentence, exactly how much to admit, when Sidney chuckles, gracious with someone else caving first. 

“Kind of a dick,” he fills in. “So was I.” 

Geno laughs too. “Could also say, I wasn’t good at dealing with feelings,” he says, watching Sidney closely. His cheeks are going a little pink, he thinks. “I had a crush on you, didn’t know how to handle it.” Sid’s cheeks are definitely pink now. It cuts right through that camera-ready facade. Geno wants to make him blush like that constantly. 

“Did?”  Sidney asks, and there’s a look in his eyes that’s almost like one Geno had seen at the camera before, when he was supposed to look like he was getting what he wanted come hell or high water. “How are you feeling now?” 

Geno had used to see that look and want to push at it, see if he could get it to break. He still sort of does, but he thinks he can handle it better than he had. “Feelings like check out not for a few more hours,” he says, and Sidney turns pink again, much to Geno’s satisfaction. 

* * *

They still have plenty of stuff to figure out, from high school and getting to know each other now, but–now Sidney will be at a shoot and Geno’s sending him pictures and jokes that make him smile and camerapeople start trying for those candids, and Geno shoves a lot of photos in people’s faces to show off his boyfriend, and there’s still a lot of bickering but it’s good. And anyway, they know how to resolve that. 


	38. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, modern royalty AU

Sid has worn the weight of the crown his whole life. He doesn’t even really think about it, at this point; he’s going to be king one day and maybe that doesn’t mean what it once did–there’s a democratically elected body for actual ruling and no armies to lead, though Sid thinks he might have been good at that part–but there is responsibility and moral leadership and being a role model. That’s his life and he’s fine with it, and if it means there are more rules about his life then that’s fine too. He knows he has friends who think he must be going insane, that he must want to do something crazy, but the thing is–he doesn’t. Sidney’s not a reckless person. He’s fine with his rules and his walls and his duty. Maybe it means there’s little room for love, but he wouldn’t know if he’s missing anything there. 

* * *

Sid’s only safety valve is hockey. His parents and a lot of the realm really don’t approve of him playing, because they can’t have the Crown Prince getting injured, but his head of security, Tanger, also loves hockey and is also very fond of him, so he manages to sneak away sometimes to a rink–sometimes private, sometimes not–and play a little. When he’s moving like this, on the ice–it’s almost like everything else lifts off, and for once, he’s weightless. He’s on the rink skating, when suddenly a little girl stumbles and falls into his path, and he has to do some interesting acrobatics not to run her over. Because he’s got a lot of practice with kids, Sid stops, sets her on her feet as she babbles excitedly about how fast she was going. Seconds later, a man skates over, scolding her in Russian Sid can catch a few words of, and then he turns to Sid, and he’s–well, he’s tall and has sleepy eyes and shouldn’t be attractive and really is. “Sorry,” he says, his accent thick, “Didn’t mean to lose track.” 

* * *

“Well she is very fast,” the man Natalia had run into agrees, smiling down at Geno’s honorary niece. It’s a lot. Geno might not be from this country, but even he’s seen pictures of the Crown Prince (Seen. Admired.  Wondered if he really was as stiff as he looks in pictures). He’d never thought he’d see him; he’s only a sports journalist. But he’s going to be cool, he decides. Not make a big deal about it. So he proposes buying the Prince a hot chocolate in exchange. Sid accepts, and somehow the hot chocolate turns into a whole day spent together, the two of them and Natalia, who Geno had agreed to watch for the day.

* * *

In the evening (after dropping Natalia off) they definitely go to a hockey game. Sid’s been before, of course, but he’s always in a box; this time he watches from the stands and he’s grinning so delightedly the whole time and his cheeks are pink and he gets really intense about the game, and Geno looks over and already feels so fond and thinks how much a pity it is that his perfect man is a Prince and entirely out of his reach. He considers putting an arm around Sidney anyway, maybe just taking this time as it is–but then the attractive man who is clearly Sidney’s security who Geno’s been politely pretending isn’t there this whole evening clears his throat, and Geno doesn’t.

* * *

After the game, Sidney really needs to get home because he played hooky today on some sort of madness but he has a lot to do tomorrow and he really can’t disappear anymore. But he finds he doesn’t want to leave, for once. He wants to see what Geno’s life is like. He wants to know more about him and wants to hear his thoughts and wants to just be around him more. He can’t, of course. But–he’s been reckless all day, and he wants more. He gives Tanger a look over Geno’s shoulder, and they manage to silently negotiate, and then Tanger steps away and they’re alone for the first time. Sidney doesn’t waste time–he doesn’t have it. Instead, he just kisses Geno, and Geno’s immediately on board. Sid’s been kissed before, and he’s even been kissed by people he likes before–but it’s never been anything like this. It’s never been anything that stays with him, after he sadly bids Geno farewell. Geno didn’t even give him his phone number, anyway; clearly he didn’t want Sid to stay. 

* * *

Geno resolutely does not think about his day with Sidney after it’s done. He doesn’t dream about that kiss, or how Sidney’s body had felt against his, solid and strong and eager, or the sounds he had made, or how his eyes had sparkled at the rink or the way he’d talked about his family, or how easily he bore the weight of a country on his shoulders. Gonch teases him a lot, but he doesn’t think about it. He can’t. He can’t let his heart break for something he can’t have. 

* * *

Sidney can’t think about anything else. He’s never been distracted before, but he’s distracted now. He dreams about that kiss, about Geno’s smile and his big hands and how he’d laughed at Sid like he was anyone else. How free it had been, to have that laughter. The rules are starting to feel like walls now, in a way they hadn’t before. But he goes through the motions, until finally his mom sits him down and tries to convince him that he’s allowed to be happy. Even if its not what people want of him? Sidney asks, and she just smiles. 

* * *

Geno doesn’t know what he’s expecting when the guys at work say someone’s there to see him, but it’s definitely not Sid’s security guy, tapping his foot and looking impatient. 

“I’m not do anything he doesn’t want!” Geno tells him immediately, and the guy grins. 

“Trust me, I know,” the guys says. “Come with me, though.” Geno doesn’t see how he really has a choice, and also–there’s a possibility this is getting him closer to Sidney, so he has to take it. He ends up at the palace, and Geno can’t follow where they’re going but then there’s Sidney, sitting in a living room in a suit and looking much more like the Prince then he had with Geno. 

“So, um, I guess if you didn’t know who I was before you do now?” he says, and Geno laughs, and Sidney smiles sheepishly, and there he is–there’s Geno’s Sid. 

* * *

They live happily ever after! Geno very much enjoys being the royal consort and running charities and going around petting dogs and kissing babies, even if he hates the media attention. They still sneak off sometimes to be “normal people.” Tanger is very fondly exasperated by it all. 


	39. Tyler/Jamie: the way I said I love you: as a taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips

“Wait, no stay back!” Tyler’s laughing as he scrambles back over the couch, the phone clutched securely in his hand. “No, you don’t get it, this phone is staying with me.”

“Seggy!” Jamie whines, but he’s charging after Tyler with a determination that doesn’t quite match his whine. It’s more intimidating than Tyler thought, having all that intensity coming after him—this is Jamie on the ice, ready to fight his way to the net—but it’s still  _Jamie_ , and also Jamie might be big but Tyler’s fast. “Come on, give me my phone!”

“No, you can’t be trusted with it.” Tyler pauses a second by the door, taunting, then makes a run down the hall. He can hear Jamie’s footsteps pounding after him, and there are dogs barking because the dogs always like to get in on Tyler’s roughhousing. “Just trust me, I’ve got this.”

“You don’t need to get this, I can do it!” Jamie’s panting as it comes out, but it’s also mixed in laughter. Tyler takes a left into the kitchen, and thanks his designer for the open floor plan. If he gets cornered he’s done. “I don’t need you to text people for me.”

“I’ve seen your texts, bro, you really do.” Jamie’s texts are a ridiculously endearing nightmare of clear punctuation and capitalization, and when he’s  _texting_  texting, they’re formal and uptight and make the girls he’s texting think that he’s some uptight asshole, when really he’s—well, he’s  _Jamie_ , quiet and laidback and determined and so good that Tyler is determined not to let him stand in his own way. “This is what I’m good at, just let me—oh, shit!” he swears, as the change from kitchen tile back to den rug trips him up and makes him stumble.

Jamie takes the opportunity and barrels into Tyler with all his weight and momentum, and Tyler goes down. Jamie manages to cushion it a little, rolling them as they fall so Tyler doesn’t end up actually hurting anything. Instead, he’s on his back and Jamie’s over him, pinning down his thighs and grabbing for the phone still in Tyler’s hand.

“No!” Tyler yells, trying to squirm out. Jamie’s way too solid for that, though, and he’s flushed and laughing above Tyler and grinning in that way he has that makes it seem like the sun coming up and all those other ridiculous clichés, and Tyler stops squirming before it becomes a situation. (maybe it’s getting closer to becoming a situation a lot recently. Maybe it’s almost a situation even when its just the two of them hanging out and watching TV and Jamie gives him a sleepy grin. Tyler’s got this. He’s not making it a situation and Jamie doesn’t know it’s a situation and so everything is good).

“Give it,” Jamie rumbles, low in his chest. Not a situation, Tyler reminds himself, and keeps smacking at Jamie’s hands as he tries to get the phone away.

“I’m saving you from yourself! This is for your own good!”

“Segs—” Jamie gets a hand the wrist of the hand not holding the phone, firm despite how he’s breathless from laughter. Fuck.

“I love you,” Tyler starts, and he means to end with a chirp about how Jamie’s got no game, but Jamie’s whole body does something at those words—some sort of jerk.  

It makes Jamie’s grip go loose and his weight shift, and Tyler’s body reacts to that before his mind catches up to him, and he surges up and rolls them so Jamie’s back hits the ground and Tyler’s the one straddling his massive thighs (not a situation. This is not a situation), holding the phone in the air.

“Hah!” Tyler crows, distracted by the win, and Jamie lets out a noise that’s half a laugh and half the sound he makes when he gets hit.

Tyler looks down at Jamie at that sound—he doesn’t like sounds that make it sound like Jamie’s getting hurt. He’s still flushed, and the remnants of the laughter are still on his lips, but his eyes are wide, somehow even bigger than usual, and staring at Tyler with the same sort of shocked disbelief he’d had that first second that he got the call about Jordie being traded.

“Hey.” Tyler lets his hand falls to his side. If he managed to fuck up somehow—he doesn’t know who will kill him if he managed to get the captain hurt wrestling on his living room floor, but he expects there will be a line and he doesn’t think he’d get out of the way.  “You okay?”

Jamie blinks, and that look is gone, something like a smile back. “Yeah, ‘course.” He reaches out and snags the phone from Tyler’s limp grip. “Got it!” He smiles again, and it’s still a little anemic.

“Jamie.”

“Tyler,” Jamie echoes, a hint of sternness in it. Something like his captain voice, but something like his voice after a bad game too, when he can’t let himself think about it in front of anyone else and still be the captain they need.

But Tyler’s not anyone, and it’s when Jamie sounds like that that he needs Tyler to poke at him until he lets off the steam. “Jamie,” he says again, and he rocks back and forth a little so Jamie’s body rocks too. “If you really want your phone back, it’s fine. I won’t text her any bad shit. Not if you really like her.”

Tyler hadn’t thought he liked her that much—they’d gone on one date that Jamie had sounded pretty tepid about—but Jamie’s got still waters running deep, sometimes. Maybe he really liked this girl. Maybe he was going to go off and marry this girl. Tyler would be—he’d be fine with that. (Not a situation. Definitely not a situation).  

“No, it’s—I know you wouldn’t,” Jamie replies, so sure. Like he trusts Tyler. After this many years, Tyler knows he does, but it never fails to light something in him, to know that Jamie trusts him so unquestioningly, despite everything. (maybe a situation. Maybe almost a situation). “It’s fine. I promise.”

Tyler remains unconvinced. What had he said? He’d just—

Oh.

“You know I love you, bro, right?” Tyler says, more of an experiment than anything. Jamie doesn’t do the same muscle thing that had happened earlier—he just smiles, easy and not reaching his eyes.

“Yeah, of course. Love you too.” Jamie reaches up and shoves his hand into Tyler’s face, pushing him away. “When you’re not being annoying.”

“So you love me all the time, awesome,” Tyler retorts, trying to watch closely. Jamie doesn’t react, just rolls his eyes at Tyler, smiling again. Which is good, all things considered. But Tyler still wants to know…

He licks his lips, then reaches down to ruffle Jamie’s hair. It’s something he does plenty, messing it up because Jamie only so recently figured out what to do with it, so it’s not a situation sort of thing. Except, well. Jamie’s hair is soft beneath his fingers and if Tyler were, say, to lean down and kiss Jamie right now, he’d get his hands in Jamie’s hair like this, make sure to mess it up and maybe tug a little to see if Jamie liked that. So it  _could_ be a situation thing. If there were a situation. Which there isn’t.

Jamie’s eyes go a little wide with that same shocked look, and because he’s literally sitting on him he can hear his sharp intake of breath. Tyler doesn’t stop looking, watches like he does on the ice, for any sense that anything is changing, and he sees the twitch in the muscle of Jamie’s neck and how his lips part the tiniest bit, like an invitation for a kiss that sets off an ache in Tyler he’d been trying to ignore for years. Unconsciously, he shifts, maybe to lean down—

Then Jamie’s pushing up and shoving Tyler off, rolling to his feet with that weird grace that belies the size of him and turning away from Tyler.

“Now it’s been forever and she probably thinks I’m weird, thanks,” he mutters, his back hunching over his phone. He’s not texting, though. Tyler knows what Jamie’s back looks like when he’s texting.

“Good, then she won’t be surprised,” Tyler yells after him. Jamie doesn’t even respond, just stalks back towards the living room, his back stiff.

Tyler stays on his ass on the floor where Jamie’d thrown him, watching Jamie retreat and licking his lips thoughtfully. Okay, he admits to himself. It is a situation. And he thinks it’s one he can work with.


	40. Sid/Geno: meeting at a support group AU

“Thank you, Sandra,” Phil, the moderator, says, and everyone else in the circle mumbles their assent. Sandra, a large black woman who still rubs at her stump of a leg like it’s going to reappear, nods, clearly blinking back tears. Phil looks around. “Would anyone else like to share right now?” 

Despite himself, Geno glances to the corner. The group isn’t stable, per se; people come in and out depending on when they can make it and how far along in recovery they are, how much they need it. But most of the other people who are there have either talked already today, or recently. 

But the man in the corner, with his baseball cap pulled low over his head and his fingers drumming against the arm of the chair, doesn’t say anything. 

Phil nods. “Okay, then. Let’s take a break, and if anyone decides they want to formally share, we can reconvene, or we’ll just hang out until we’re kicked out.”

“Thanks, Phil,” Geno contributes, which gets everyone else to echo him. Phil gives a sheepish smile, and a grin of thanks at Geno. Geno’s been here almost as long as he has; at this point, he’s not sure if he comes for the catharsis, just to pay it forward, or just out of habit. 

Everyone turns away from the center of the room, splitting into little groups or checking their phones. Geno chats a little with some of the other regulars, enough that his mouth gets dry and he wants to get some tea. 

Geno finds him near the snacks, staring at the cookies. 

He resists the urge to offer help. No one wants that. “Problem with cookies?” he asks instead. Sidney laughs, something low and dry. 

“I’m not used to not exercising regularly,” he says simply. Geno looks down, but his cap covers his face completely. “I don’t know what I can eat yet.” 

“Should have cookie,” Geno decides, and leans over to put one on a plate. He hands it down to Sidney, who takes it with a murmured thank you. “Want more?” 

“I’ll get it if I do,” Sidney replies, sharp but even, and Geno knows that feeling. He still has it, too often. 

“Well, I go sit down. Leg ache,” he says, patting his knee, feeling his rings clank against the metal there. “You come with?” 

Sidney pauses, but then nods, shrugs. It’s not the first time they’ve talked after the formal session is over, chatting about nothing at all. It’s something Geno hadn’t expected–how much he actually likes Sidney Crosby. 

“Sure,” He agrees, and wheels himself over to the table. Geno moves chairs aside to make room for him, then sets his two chairs up so Geno can prop his leg up, stretch it out a little. He doesn’t miss how Sidney’s eyes flash to it, then back to Geno’s face. His gaze is even on Geno’s face, half a challenge and half a sort of basic stubbornness that Geno suspects goes right down to his soul. It makes Geno want to stand up and take notice–makes him understand just why this man was who he was. Is who he is. 

“You not share yet?” Geno asks, sips at his tea. It’s watery and too bitter, as always. 

“I’m not big on sharing,” Sidney admits. His lips twist. “As you probably know.” 

Geno doesn’t deny it. Half the people in this room probably know. No one’s said anything, out of some sort of tacit understanding–the people who know Sidney Crosby’s media personality is also know what that last hit cost him. Instead of saying that, though, he asks, “Then why come?” 

“My therapist thought it would do me good.” Sidney’s face shifts, and Geno can see the media training coming in. “And it is, to see everyone else be so strong, it puts things in perspective. It–” 

“No bullshit, Sidney.” Gently, Geno jostles the chair. Sidney’s lips click together, and he glares. “You okay? Thought you about to share, last time. Something happen?” 

Sidney opens his mouth, closes it. Looks around. Swallows. “Nothing happened. It’s just–what it is.” 

“Can share, what it is,” Geno points out. “What you here for.” 

“Can I?” Sidney shakes his head. “You’re all–my problems are so petty, next to people’s here.” 

“Your problems not–”

“Sandra is living, barely, off of disability,” Sidney replies, quick like he’s winning an argument. “Henry’s wife left him. Most people here lost their jobs.” 

“You lost your job,” Geno observes. 

Sidney snorts. “Unless something goes really wrong, I’m set for the rest of my life. Even like this, I’ve got offers–coaching, commentating. Front office stuff. Money will never be an issue.” 

“That not the only trauma, of losing your job,” Geno points out. He takes another sip of tea. “Especially–” 

“For me?” Sidney nods. “Yeah.” He sighs. His fingers are still moving over the metal of the chair, like he isn’t used to it. He probably isn’t. “I thought the concussion would be the worst of it–thought I’d prepared for this. It’s not like I didn’t know it was a possibility.” He shakes his head. “But somehow, I didn’t prepare for this.” 

“Can’t really prepare,” Geno tells him. He doesn’t entirely get it–he’s still got most of his mobility–but he gets it enough. 

“And I feel so bratty. I have three Stanley Cups. Three gold medals. That should be enough.” His hands clench. “And instead I’m just so mad I’m stuck in this fucking chair.” 

Geno looks down at him. His wheelchair’s a little higher than the folding chairs, but Geno’s still a little taller than him. He still looks like Sidney Crosby–even if his legs are mostly useless, he’s massive from the waist up, still with those arms and shoulders and all the parts of him Geno had looked at before this. Whatever happened to him, he’s clearly been taking his physical therapy seriously. And more, probably. “Not bratty to be mad at universe, for take away legs.” 

“It is to complain.” Sidney shakes his head. “Or it’s not, I know, but I don’t like to, here.”

“Can complain to me,” Geno offers. “I’m not take offense.”

Sidney cocks his head at Geno. It makes Geno want to look away, the intensity of that gaze, the way he seems to see through Geno. Instead, he meets Sidney’s gaze. “Why?” 

“What?”

“You’ve been particularly nice to me since I started coming here. Why?” Sidney asks. “I don’t doubt you’re a nice person, but you aren’t this nice to anyone else.” 

Geno swallows, and looks down at his hands. At his metal leg, hidden under his pants leg. 

“I am nice person,” He starts. Sidney snorts but doesn’t look away. Fuck, Geno gets why everyone seems to immediately decide he’s the captain of whatever situation he’s in. “But–you probably not remember, but I’m meet you before. Was charity thing, take fans into locker room, you meet, smile, give jersey.” Sidney nods, but there’s no recognition there. Geno doesn’t blame him–how many of those must he have done? “I’m big fan. I am big fan,” he corrects himself. Sidney’s lips twist, like he wants to argue with the tense, but Geno won’t let him. 

“Was in 2013, you just get jaw injury, all–” he motions to his face. “I’m just get hurt, still angry, still think life over, not be able to do anything. Not have leg yet. And you look at me, and shake hand, and say, we’ll get back out there soon, yeah.” Geno swallows he can’t quite articulate it, and definitely not in English, just what that had meant to him. Just what the certainty had meant, what it had meant that to hear Sidney Crosby say that like it was a fact, immutable and true. It hadn’t been anything more than a platitude, but it had–Geno had seen Sidney skate out there, a few weeks later, and light up the ice, and it had felt like a sign. “It get me through bad time, you say that. I want, pay back.” 

“Oh.” Sidney blinks. God, his eyes are pretty, which Geno shouldn’t be thinking, but he’s thought that for years and he doesn’t expect he’ll stop now. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.” 

“Not expect you to.” Geno’s not an idiot. He never expected to make as big an impact. At the moment, he hadn’t expected someone like Sidney Crosby, an athlete at the top of his game, to take a second look at some crippled vet. Then, he just knew he didn’t live in some romance novel. “Still mean a lot to me.” 

“I’m glad I could help.” Sidney taps at his leg. It doesn’t look like he feels it. “You don’t owe me anything for it, though.” 

Geno rolls his eyes. “Not about owe,” he retorts. “Is about–want to help. How we get through this, help each other.” 

Sidney nods, slowly. When he looks up again, for the first time, Geno sees doubt in Sidney Crosby’s eyes. It looks wrong. “Does it get better?” Sidney asks, in a tone that hurts to hear. 

Geno takes a risk, and reaches out to put his hand on Sidney’s shoulder. Sidney turns into it, easy as breathing. “Yes,” Geno says, making reckless promises he might not be able to keep, but trying for that same certainty Sidney had given him years ago. 

Sidney smiles, a small, fledgling thing, but focused right on Geno. “Thank you,” he says, and Geno just hopes he’s telling the truth, or he can make it true. 


	41. Tyler/Jamie: one night stand and falling pregnant au

Jamie answers the door as soon as Tyler gives his courtesy knock, not even waiting for Tyler to get out his key. 

“Hey, babe,” Tyler tells him, and steps closer to kiss him hello. There’s still a part of him that thrills with it, every time–that he’s allowed to. That he’s encouraged to, because Jamie still gets his cute little smile whenever Tyler does silly relationship shit like that. And, added bonus, it feels like a constant reminder of the fuck you to everyone who said he was too wild, too irresponsible. He’s an A  _and_ he nailed down–and just nailed, hah–one of Canada’s many sweethearts, so fuck them. Just for that, he gives Jamie another kiss, longer. It’s been a whole like, twelve hours since he saw him last, after they got off the plane and mutually if tacitly decided that tonight was a night for crashing in their own bed because they were both too exhausted for sex and Tyler had to deal with the dogs. 

Jamie kisses him back, but in that distracted way he gets when he’s definitely too in his head. Tyler pulls back, raises his eyebrows. “What’s up?” They’d had a good road trip, and Tyler knows he’s not in on all the leadership shit, but he’d think he’d hear anything big. 

“It’s–” Jamie shakes his head. “Just come in.” 

Tyler doesn’t move. “Are you okay?” he asks. He knows he’s not always like, the most emotionally aware person, but he’s really trying with Jamie. “Blink once if you have a gun on you. We can bail, like, right now.” Jamie’s lips twitch, and there’s the smile–Tyler’s smile.  _His_. 

“No, it’s not that, it’s just–look, I can’t explain here, come in.” 

“Not really making me feel better,” Tyler says, but he comes in. There’s what’s definitely a woman’s jacket hanging on a hook. “You have a guest, Bennie?” Tyler asks, and doesn’t let himself jump to the worst conclusion. He and Jamie are solid. And even if they weren’t, Jamie’s the last person who would cheat on him. 

“That’s part of what’s up,” Jamie says, and herds Tyler into the kitchen. There’s a woman sitting there–pretty, with the sort of aggressive confidence that Tyler’s always been attracted to. She looks a little familiar, too. And she smiles and waves at Tyler like he should know her, so he smiles and nods back. 

“Segs, this is Megan. Megan, Segs.” 

“Oh, I remember him,” she says, and levers herself up. Tyler’s eyebrows go up. She is definitely pregnant. Then she glances up at him through her eyelashes, and oh, shit, Tyler does remember her. 

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees, apparently seeing the realization in Tyler’s eyes. 

“Nice that you guys remember the third person in your threesome,” she says, and holds out a hand to shake. “I’m not sure we ever actually met. Megan Schmitt.” 

Tyler takes her hand, shakes in gingerly. How do you act around pregnant women? “Tyler Seguin. And, well, sorry, but that was during when he was still pretending he wasn’t into me, it was a whole thing.” 

“Hey, you were doing that too!” Jamie objects, and wanders over to where Tyler is to sling an arm over his shoulder. Tyler settles into it, grins at him. Maybe he had been–maybe they both had been–but they’re over that and feeling their way into this new thing between them, and it had resulted in a bunch of hot threesomes where there’d been a lot of intense accidental eye contact. The way Tyler sees it, there hadn’t ben a downside. 

Except, well. “Yeah, that’s fair and all,” Megan says, and eases herself back down. “Except, we were careful, but apparently not careful enough.” 

Tyler pauses. Then that hits. “Oh,  _shit_.” 

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees with a heartfelt sigh. 

Tyler looks up at him. “Really?” 

“Really,” Megan confirms. Pointedly. 

Tyler looks back at her. Narrows his eyes. He doesn’t remember her well, but–well, he’s lived this life before. “Is there proof?” 

“What?” Jamie asks. “Tyler–” 

“I haven’t had a DNA test done, but I can if you want.” Megan shrugs. She doesn’t look concerned or insulted. Jamie looks a little of both. “I don’t actually really care. I’m keeping the kid no matter what, but it was pointed out to me that you guys might want to know you had a kid. I’m not asking for money or anything.” 

“So what are you asking for, then?” Tyler demands. Jamie’s not being any help, just doing the hovering thing he does when he’s not sure what he’s doing. 

“Nothing,” Megan retorts. “Just letting you know if you want to be part of your kids life, then you can be. And if you guys don’t have any idea who the dad is, we should get a DNA test, because I’m going to need a medical history.” 

“How do you not know?” Tyler’s fingernails are digging into his palms. The pain keeps him steady, at least. 

“There were a lot of hands and a lot of dicks, forgive me if I don’t remember the play by play.” Megan snorts. “You guys weren’t that mindblowing, dudes.” 

Tyler looks at Jamie. Jamie shrugs back. To be honest, most of what Tyler remembers from that night is Jamie–how Jamie looked when he was turned on out of his mind, how his hands slid over skin deft and strong, how his dick looked hard. Now, even those memories are overwritten a little–like, the threesome was hot, but so are all the times since then that Tyler’s gotten Jamie all to himself. 

“So, DNA test,” Tyler says, sounding more sure. 

“Will you need anything from us to set that up?” Jamie asks, because great, he’s contributing now. 

“Probably. I’ll let you know.” Megan looks between them again. “And like, whoever the dad is can decide how much they want to do with the kid then. Or, you know. If both of you want to, I don’t know what your whole thing is.” 

“I–” Tyler looks at Jamie one more time. A kid. A fucking kid. Tyler’s fucked up a lot in his life, but he thought he’d steered clear of this one at least. He can’t have a kid. He’s barely an adult himself. 

But Jamie–fuck, Tyler’s seen Jamie look like that. he knows what Jamie looks like when he wants something. When he hasn’t let himself think about something, but now it’s here and he wants it. 

“Give us a second,” Tyler tells Megan, and then he gets a hand on Jamie’s wrist and pulls him away, into the living room. 

“Seriously?” he asks, once they’re there. Hypothetically he’s whispering, but who knows if that will last long. 

“I don’t know,” Jamie bites at his lips. “Haven’t you ever thought about it?” 

“Not really!” Tyler gestures between them. “And not since this started, unless there’s some medical magic you’re not telling me about!” 

“No, obviously, but–do you not want kids?” Jamie asks. They’ve been officially dating all of a few months, and they’re already having this conversation. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it.” Tyler runs a hand through his hair. Forces himself to ask. “Do you?” 

“Yeah,” Jamie says, like ‘of course.’ “I didn’t think now, obviously, but sometime–” 

“After me?” Tyler gets out, his voice hoarse. He hadn’t been thinking of an  _after_ Jamie time in his life. 

Jamie’s eyes go even bigger. “No, of course not, come on, Segs. I mean, like. When we’re a little older.” He pauses, then, “You really haven’t thought about it?” 

“Well it’s happening now, not in a few years!” Tyler hisses back. “And you want that?” 

“I want that for us,” Jamie corrects, looking very earnest and very sure, like he’s always looked at Tyler. 

It’s the first time maybe ever that Tyler really feels that Jamie’s older than him. Jamie’s always been his captain, and that means he’s always had a different level of responsibility than Tyler, but it’s never had to do with those extra three years. 

“I’m not ready for a kid, Bennie,” Tyler says, the honesty pulled out of him. “We’re barely figuring us out, let alone–” 

“You think we’re barely figuring us out?” Jamie asks, sounding as hurt as Tyler had before. “Isn’t it going well?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Because he can’t not–because it’s instinct, at this point–Tyler steps in, closer to Jamie. “But, like–this is a kid. Who would trust me with a kid?” 

“Anyone who’s seen you with your dogs?” Jamie retorts. Fast enough that it’s almost like he’s thought about this. “Or how you are with all your Seguin’s Stars kids? Or hell, how you are with rookies?” 

Tyler manages a smile. “You been thinking about this, Jamie?” 

Jamie’s cheeks go red. Which is–Jamie’s been thinking about it. About kids, with him. About  _forever_ with him, and they haven’t said that yet, haven’t said any of the big words, that start with L or M or anything else, but Tyler would be lying if he didn’t know he’s in love with Jamie, and there’s no coming out on the other side. 

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Jamie says, still red and definitely drawing in on himself and overthinking. “If you aren’t ready, you aren’t ready, and that’s fine. I can keep you out of it. I know we don’t have to want–”

“I love you,” Tyler interrupts. Jamie freezes, but not in the bad way, just in the way he gets when someone throws a curveball at him, like he needs a second to process. Tyler can give him that, but also he has to wrap his arms around Jamie’s neck. “Fuck, Jamie. I really love you.” 

“I–um. You do?” 

“Yes,” Tyler says, leaves off the ‘you idiot.’ “Fuck, yes. Fine. Let’s have a baby.” 

“I didn’t–that’s not what–you don’t have to–” 

“Jamie,” Tyler cuts off his stammering, then kisses him too, for good measure. “Yeah?” 

Jamie just looks at him for a second, with his big, slightly overwhelmed eyes–then he smiles, and that smile tuned on Tyler will never stop making him feel like the best guy on earth. “Yeah,” Jamie agrees. He tilts his head down, so their foreheads are resting against each other. “I love you too, you know. I didn’t want to say it yet, but if–I do.” 

Tyler chokes a little, but if Jamie’s not going to notice that he’s out there making wedding vows, Tyler’s not going to bring that up yet. He’s not ready to go quite that fast. “Good,” he says. Then, “Our kid’s going to be so fucking good at hockey.” 

“Only if he’s genetically mine,” Jamie retorts, and Tyler laughs and pushes him away, only to reel him back in again. 


	42. Tyson/Gabe: high school popular kid/nerd AU

“Hey, so, how was your day?” Tyson asks, plopping into the seat next to Gabe. He throws a completely obvious glance over his shoulder, because he is the least subtle person alive. “Laugh like I said something funny.” 

“Why would I do that?” Gabe asks, but he does tilt his computer closed, a little. Tyson’s eyebrows go up. 

“Wow, a computer close! I feel special.” 

“I’m doing this as a favor to you,” Gabe retorts, and resists the urge to open his computer back up, partly to work on his essay, but also just to be difficult. Tyson makes him want to be difficult. Tyson also makes him apparently agree to ridiculous things. 

“You’re doing this for half the bet when we win it,” Tyson argues, as blithely accepting of the fact that he’d actually been bet two hundred dollars to get in Gabe’s pants as he had been when he’d first accosted Gabe on the bleachers and announced that he’d just been bet two hundred dollars he couldn’t get into Gabe’s pants, but he wasn’t a good enough liar or a bad enough person to actually do it, so would Gabe like to pretend and also make a hundred dollars? 

It had been hard to argue with that. It should have been easy to argue with that–it’s a ridiculous bet, and Gabe’s still not sure exactly how it happened (Tyson claims that Nelson’s being biphobic and didn’t believe that Tyson would actually ask out a guy, Gabe’s pretty convinced that this is a long term scheme to humiliate Gabe because Nelson feels inadequate in the fact of scholarship students). But then Tyson had been talking and he’d smiled at Gabe and somehow even as Gabe was telling himself and Tyson how ridiculous it was, he was agreeing. 

So now here they are, with Tyson forgoing his table of mixed hockey guys and other athletes and the kind of people who are just popular for Gabe’s table, all alone in the corner of the cafeteria, because none of his friends have his lunch period. They are definitely getting odd looks. If Tyson notices, he doesn’t seem to care. He never seems to care–or if he does, he just brushes it off. It was maybe the first thing Gabe had noticed about Tyson, that he never pretended to be anything but himself. 

“So, anyway. Your day?” Tyson asks. “Do anything fun?” 

“Wrote my college essay.” 

Tyson rolls his eyes. “You’re so boring, Landesnerd,” he says, and steals a fry off of Gabe’s plate. Gabe slaps at his hand to stop him, and Tyson pulls his hand back, pouting. “And mean!” 

“You need discipline,” Gabe retorts, because he’s pretty sure the whole reason they’re in this mess is because Tyson’s, in his words, hyper-competitive and can’t stop what comes out of his mouth. 

“Only if you’re into that,” Tyson throws back, then goes a little red, which makes Gabe think he actually is into that. “Anyway,” he says, too fast. “I’m going to a party tonight, and you should come too.” Gabe must make a face–high school parties here are not his scene, with the cheap beer and stupid drinking games and hook ups–because Tyson goes on, “If I were succeeding in getting in your pants, you would definitely go to the party with me. It’d be like, romantic or something. We could dance, drink shitty beer, maybe feel each other up in a closet.” 

“Really painting an attractive picture here, Barrie.” 

“I know I am,” Tyson agrees, waving to himself. “I mean, who couldn’t resist this?” he adds, self-deprecating. “But also, Nelson will be there, and maybe, I don’t know, we could go into a room and make some noise and he might believe we did the deed?” 

“You’re fake seducing me in some dude’s parents’ bedroom?” Gabe wrinkles his nose. “Glad to know what I’m worth to you.” 

“Look, when some guy decides you’re living in a shitty 90s high school comedy, you go all in.” Tyson shrugs. “And–well, it’ll be easier for you to deny. Or like, say you were really drunk and it was a one time thing.” 

Gabe cocks his head. Tyson’s looking down at Gabe’s tray. “Shouldn’t it be you who’s backpedaling?” he asks. No one’s kidding themselves here about their respective social statuses. Gabe’s the kind of guy who sits alone in the lunchroom working and counting down the days until he can get out of high school and onto better things. Tyson’s the kind of guy whose lunch table is full. 

“Why would I backpedal? You’re hot and smart and funny, I should be so lucky,” Tyson tells him, then goes red again, shakes his head with a wry laugh. “I mean–and Nelson needs to believe me.” 

It’s the kind of thing Tyson’s said sometimes that makes Gabe almost believe–but he’s not going to be stupid. Gabe might not have understood in the beginning why Tyson, who’s cute but by a lot of objective measures not the hottest person in the school, who really can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, who isn’t the star of any team or anything, is universally loved. But then, well. Tyson’s got some ineffable magnetism to him, which makes Gabe agree to stupid shit and everyone be amused rather than annoyed at his misadventures and write off his snark as humor rather than nastiness. Tyson draws people in, it’s what he does, natural and accidental as a flower drawing in bees. He doesn’t mean anything by it, or the way he flirts with Gabe. 

So Gabe just shrugs. “My cred can’t exactly go lower, can it?”

“You calling me the bottom, Landeskog?” Tyson asks, and Gabe snorts. Tyson hides his grin. 

“If the shoe fits…” 

“Why are we wearing shoes?” Tyson asks. “So, party. In or out? I can pick you up.” 

Gabe is not letting Tyson see where he lives. He doesn’t know much about the Barries, but he knows that Tyson is not a scholarship kid. “I’ll meet you at your place,” he replies. Tyson’s lips twist. 

“If you meet me at my place, then we’ll probably end up going with Jamie too–he doesn’t trust himself to get ready on his own so he always ends up at mine.” 

“He trusts your taste?” 

“My taste is impeccable, Gabriel.” No one says Gabe’s name quite like Tyson does–like it’s a statement all on its own. Which Gabe is not going to read into. “And some of us don’t have perfect hair and have to learn how to do it ourselves.” 

“Seriously, why don’t you have a boyfriend already?” Gabe asks, which clearly takes Tyson aback but–how does he not? He’s one of the most popular guys in school, and apparently he just piles on compliments. “Or a girlfriend, I don’t know?” 

Tyson shrugs. “I’m needy and don’t take anything seriously and am mean and am a lot to handle in large doses, according to the last girl I dated.” Gabe can feel his hands curling into fists at the easy way he says that. He hasn’t seen any evidence of that, what fucking bullshit. But Tyson just keeps talking. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, if that’s what you’re into?” 

“Who has time?” Gabe replies, more honestly than maybe he should, but it’s hard not to be honest when Tyson’s heart is just right there on his sleeve. “I’ve got schoolwork and college apps and extracurriculars to focus on.” 

“Well we sound completely incompatible,” Tyson announces, and sticks out his hand. “Nice to do business with you.” 

Gabe looks at it, then laughs, and takes his hand to shake. “Yeah, you too.” 

“So, tonight?” Tyson stands up without letting go of Gabe’s hand. His hand’s warm and a little sweaty and muscled and Gabe can’t think too much about it. He’s teetering on an edge, he can feel it. 

But right now, he sighs. “Yeah, I’ll find time.” 

“Great!” Tyson swallows, and rubs at the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh. See you then. Looking forward to it!” he adds, all in a rush, then does something best called a scamper as he goes back to his friends. He slides onto the bench next to Benn, then says something that has Benn turn to look at Gabe, wary and confused–or maybe that’s just how Benn looks, Gabe doesn’t know. But as soon as he sees Gabe still looking, he raises an eyebrow–and then Tyson grabs his sleeve and tugs, clearly embarrassed. 

“What’s up with you?” Ryan asks, kicking at his calf as he sits down in the seat Tyson vacated. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re smiling. I didn’t know you did that in school outside of a class where you know the answer.” 

“No reason,” Gabe tells him. He steals another glance at Tyson’s table. Tyson moves fast, but it’s still pretty clear that he was looking at Gabe a second ago. It’s enough to make Gabe wonder just how much of a rom-com they’re in.  


	43. Sid/Geno: one night stand and falling pregnant AU

Geno honestly doesn’t mean to find it. 

He’s not going through Sid’s garbage, or anything. He just is using her upstairs bathroom, because the one downstairs is crowded and he’s one of the few people with run of the house, then he uses a tissue, and goes to throw it away, and–well, he’s had scares before. He recognizes a pregnancy test when he sees one. 

So what, he tells himself, as he washes his hands. So what. So Sid had to take a pregnancy test. Maybe it wasn’t even her–Sid lives alone, sure, but TV has taught him that sometimes women do that in groups, for support. Maybe one of Sid’s girl friends came over. He thinks she has those. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure of what Sid’s social circle consists of, outside of hockey, but he’s pretty sure she and Catherine and Malin and some of the other female players go out sometimes. Maybe it was one of the rookie’s girlfriends’. That would make sense. Sid adopts people like breathing, and that means rookies and their significant others both. 

That must be it, he decides, and finishes washing his hand to go back downstairs, to the party. That must be it, because Sid–because Sid is the most careful person he knows, and he assumes she must be as careful with shit like this as she is with everything else in her life, and–he would know if Sid was dating someone. Probably. No, he would definitely know. She’s private, but not with him. 

Still, he finds Tanger when he gets downstairs, even before finding Sid. He’s in the kitchen, getting more beers, which means it’s easy for Geno to corner him. 

“So,” Geno starts, then realizes he doesn’t really have a subtle way to finish that. 

“So?” Tanger asks. He has three beers in his hands. If one’s for Sid, it can’t be hers. 

Geno takes a second to consider being subtle, but he thinks that ship’s probably sailed a while ago. “Is Sid dating anyone?” 

Tanger’s eyebrows go up, but then he starts to smile. “Not as far as I know,” he says, and then grabs Geno’s shoulders and pulls him in so he can kiss both cheeks, fast and bright. “Finally! Bon chance, bro, it’s about time.” 

“Wait, what–” Geno starts, but then Tanger’s just laughing and zipping his lips. 

“No, I promise, I won’t say anything,” he says, still grinning. “Just know the whole team is behind you. But if you, say, were to wait three days until the first game of the season, I would be very grateful.” 

“What?” Geno says again, but Tanger’s gone, shaking his head and laughing to himself. Geno’s pretty suer he’s gotten weirder since Flower left. Maybe there was some sort of French-Canadian weirdness quota, and Brass is pretty normal so Tanger had to take more of it on. 

Anyway, it answered one question. Even if Geno didn’t know, Tanger would definitely know if Sid was dating someone. So Sid wasn’t dating anyone, and so the test couldn’t have been hers. 

That decided, Geno grabs his own beer, and goes out into the yard. 

He has to smile, to look at it. The pre-season party’s been a staple for years, and it’s always nice–a good way for him to reorient to English, to the team. And for all Sid bitches about hosting, she loves it too, Geno knows–loves having her team back, loves the tingling anticipation of the season about to start. He doesn’t even have to look for her–he knows where she is, standing at the deck chatting with some of the rookies. She looks like she has for years too, in the best way–all dark curls and big eyes and curves in her jeans and simple t-shirt, probably too muscular and stocky for conventional beauty but who can care about that when it’s so her. Geno knows very well that lots of guys don’t care that she’s bruised most of her life, that she could crush them with her thighs–he’s seen her at bars, even in places that don’t care about hockey. 

She gestures with her beer, laughs too loud like she does off-camera, and fuck, Geno’s missed her. It’s only been a few months, but it’s longer than he’s gone without seeing her for the last few years–fuck short playoff runs for any number of reasons–and somehow it feels longer. 

“Hey, G,” Sid grins up at him when he settles in next to her, throwing a casual arm over her shoulders because it’s what he does. “Tell Zach he’s wrong about the Steelers’ chances.”

“Zach, you’re wrong about Steelers’ chances,” Geno recites, and Sid elbows him. 

“Real convincing.” 

“Well, is not hockey, can’t trust you right away,” Geno retorts, and Sid grins and rolls her eyes all at once. Geno manages to look away from her, at the other rookies–and if the test is one of theirs or their girlfriends, well, he’s an A. He can help. 

“Sid,” he murmurs, leaning down as Zach starts to argue with Jarry about football. “I’m not snoop, but upstairs, I see test–is something I need to do?” 

Sid’s eyes go wide, and her whole body freezes for a second before her media training kicks in, and  _fuck_. It’s hers. It’s hers, and she wouldn’t be reacting like this if it was negative. 

“No,” she replies, all post-loss calm. “It’s fine, Geno. Nothing you need to do.” Then, slowly, she pulls away from Geno. “I need to go check on the grill,” she says, and then she’s gone. To the grill, where Cath is, probably mocking her husband for his opinions on grilling, and Sid says something to her then Cath looks up, gives Geno her flintiest glare, and then they both disappear inside. 

Geno’s frozen, too shocked even to swear. 

///

He stays, as everyone else leaves. He gets odd looks for that–maybe he generally skips out early to escape clean up duty–but Tanger winks as he goes, even as his wife glares a clear threat. Sid doesn’t say anything, even if it’s clear what he’s doing. She just bids everyone else goodbye, until it’s just the two of them left. 

Geno thinks he’s waited admirably long before he bursts out “Sid! You–”

“No,” Sid answers, calm. She walks into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water. Geno follows. 

“I see test, Sid, is yours. Who is father? Why he not here? Why–” 

“I never got his last name,” Sid says, still so calm in that way that she is when she’s getting mad. 

Geno swallows. Okay. Sid does that, and she’s allowed to do that, he reminds himself, like he always does. Sid can do what she wants with her body, she beat that into his head the first few times he tried to–in her words–slut shame her. He can’t judge her any more than he’d judge any single guy. He didn’t have the words when he was twenty and he still doesn’t really, to explain that that isn’t the reason his throat closes up when he thinks about it. 

But now–Geno’s mind whirrs. Okay. Sid doesn’t know the father. There’s only one response to that. “You want get married?” he asks, and Sid chokes. 

“What the fuck, Geno?” 

“You pregnant.” 

“I could raise a kid on my own, I don’t need to get fucking married–” 

“But don’t have to,” Geno replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m there, always. Whatever you need.”

“I don’t need you to propose to me out of guilt for a kid that isn’t even yours,” Sid retorts, and she’s definitely getting angry now, her chin up and her body set like she’s taking a face off. 

But–well, now that image is there. A kid that’s his, a kid that’s theirs. The secret thing Geno’s never let himself think about, because that crosses some sort of line. Even if they’d be so good at hockey. 

“Well, what you need, then?” Geno demands. “Anyone know? How far along? Have–”

“I’m not.” 

“Have doctor?” Geno keeps going, trying to think what other friends who have gotten pregnant think of. “Can’t see team doctors for this, I can ask Ksenia–” 

“Geno, I’m not.” 

“Will have to tell media some time, but I can take more interviews, can make Tanger do more, if you start show–” 

“Geno!” Sid yells, and Geno goes quiet. Sid doesn’t really yell, off the ice. But now she does, and Geno focuses back on her, on her glare and how her arms are crossed over her chest and the stubborn set of her jaw. “Geno, I’m not pregnant.” 

No, Geno knows Sid. “That test yours, Sid, and if negative you not make such big deal.” 

“Yeah,” Sid agrees, and watches him with cool, hard eyes that Geno can see past, into something that looks like worry beneath it. She’s never looked small in her life, even if she’s rarely the tallest person on the ice. And now she’s filling the room, filling everything.  “But I’m not pregnant. Not anymore.” 

Oh. “Oh.” Geno takes a second, to make sure he’s translated that right. “Is–on purpose?” He doesn’t know the word for miscarriage.

“Yes.” She’s still that same fierce calm, held so tight but so proud. 

“Oh.” Geno swallows. Processes. “You okay?” he asks, because that seems right. 

“I’m perfectly healthy,” Sid replies. She turns back to the sink, refills her glass with water. The lines of her back are tense under her Pens t-shirt. 

“And–feel okay?” Geno asks. Sid’s religion’s always been quiet, and it’s sort of unclear to Geno how much of it is superstition and how much of it is actual belief, but Geno’s heard that it’s not easy any way. 

Sid shrugs, still not looking at Geno. “I am, really. I mean, it wasn’t much of a choice. I can’t have a kid now.“ 

“Could–” 

“Not and play hockey,” Sid says, like it’s as simple as that, and it probably is–another one of the things she’s given up for hockey. “After, maybe, if I’m still young enough.” She knocks on wood reflexively. “But hockey’s more important right now.” 

“And that okay with you?” Geno presses, just a little. He’s seen Sid with kids–with the Little Penguins, with her hockey school kids, with teammates’ children. She lights up with them. 

Sid shrugs. “It is what it is,” she says, and then she turns, and her chin is still up but she’s looking at Geno like a demand. “And if you have a problem with that–” 

“No!” Geno holds up his hands. “No, I’m know, is your choice, your body. Just–” It takes him a second to find the words, and another to carefully translate it to English. “I just want you be happy. If with kid, good, I help. If not–I here too, however you need.” 

For a second, Sid just looks at him–then she smiles, that slow half-smile that’s drawn Geno in since they were barely more than kids. “Thanks,” she mutters, and looks down. “I really am okay, though. I mean, maybe it could have been hard in a different situation, but not like this.” 

“Could have told me. Would have gone with you, or–”

Sid chuckles. “Sorry, G, but this was not something I needed you for. Cath went with me, and I called Taylor. It was fine.” 

“I could help,” Geno mutters. “Would have.” 

“I know.” Sid says, with a quick glance up at him, a smile. “You were ready to do more interviews for me. That’s real–I mean, if anything shows how ready you are to sacrifice for me…” 

“Probably would have made Tanger and Phil do more instead,” Geno admits, shameless now that he can, and Sid shakes her head and sets down her glass on the counter. 

“Oh I know.” Her smile is softer now, the kind of smile that the team gets, that her family does. Something deep in Geno thrills at that smile. “Thanks, Geno.” 

“Always,” Geno promises, and really he has to tug her into a hug. She comes easily, and after so long they know how they fit together so well, how Sid is so warm against him.

“Even if your proposal sucked,” she adds, and Geno makes an affronted sound. 

“Hey! You not give me time for prepare!” 

“Yeah, because your first instinct when hearing someone is pregnant is to propose,” Sid teases, and she tilts her head back to grin at him, that smirk she gets when she thinks she’s chirping someone well even if it is, inevitably, a horrible chirp. 

“Not everyone,” Geno protests. “Just you.”

“Oh.” The smug smile goes shocked, then soft again. Maybe considering. “Thanks. Even if I wouldn’t have needed it.” She pauses, then her head tilts, like it does when she watches game tape and plays are forming. “Would you have actually gone through with it?” 

“Of course.” Geno’s a little offended she has to ask. “Mean it, Sid. I’m always here for you.” 

Sid hums, still looking at him consideringly. “I’m glad,” she says at last, and drops her head again, so it rests against Geno’s chest. Geno looks down at her, at the dark curls and the way she leans into him.  He can’t help it, how he brushes a kiss to that dark hair. 

“Mean it,” he says again, quiet. “Always.” 


	44. Tyson/Gabe: meeting online AU

“Not to be that guy,” Gabe overhears as he comes back from the showers, “But are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“Yes,” Tyson insists, with that particular degree of bull-headed that means that he’s probably actually not sure it’s a good idea, but is going to do it anyway. “It’ll be fine, Nate.” 

“What’s Tyson done this time?” Gabe asks, as he goes back to his stall. His phone’s sitting on top of his street clothes; he reaches for it, unlocks it. The locker room is a bunch of nosy fuckers, so he doesn’t dare leave the app on push notifications, but there’s the red light that means there’s a message when he opens it. He grins despite himself, when he sees it–they’re so wrong about everything, but in a funny way. 

“Nothing,” Tyson insists, and Gabe tries not to look, but he does anyway–Tyson’s half dressed, his jeans low on his hips and shirtless, with all his summer muscle on full display and his cheeks still a little flushed from practice. “I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary.” 

“He met someone online,” Nate fills in, with a sigh. 

Gabe slowly unclenches his hand around his phone where it tightened involuntarily. He’s done with this, he tells himself. He’s getting over it. This just shows that he needs to. “Really, Tyson? Again?” 

“What? Online is a perfectly legitimate way to meet people!” Tyson informs them both, his hands on his hips. 

“It is,” Nate agrees, long suffering and placating. 

“But are you sure they’re a real person?” Gabe adds. He types back a message. This guy is funny and into him and he sounds cute, Gabe tells himself. That’s what matters. “Really sure?” 

“You get catfished one time!” Tyson groans, and grabs his shirt to pull over his head. When he emerges again, he’s doing that thing where he pretends to scowl but can’t stop the smile at the corner of his eyes. “And it was barely catfishing, they’d just used a different photo.” 

“And a whole different identity,” Gabe inserts, forcing himself to laugh. Tyson really does scowl. 

“We don’t know that.” 

“It’s pretty likely, though,” Nate points out. “Are you sure this person’s legit?” he asks. 

“Yes!” Tyson says again, then pulls out his phone. “Look, you can read our messages if you want.” 

“Do I want?” Nate asks, but he takes the phone. Tyson goes a little red, but shrugs. 

“We haven’t gotten to the fun part yet. Not that talking to them isn’t fun,’ Tyson goes on, thinking. “They’re great, they really get me, you know? And they get hockey but can talk about other things and–”

“Did you tell them you play in the NHL?” Gabe interrupts, before Tyson can go on one of his usual rambles about how great this person is. Gabe’s getting over Tyson, but he’s not that far along yet. “Because if you want to stay incognito–”

“No, I’m not stupid,” Tyson retorts. “We just talk about hockey.” Given how much hockey talk is on Gabe’s messages currently, he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on. “And other things. Lots of other things.” 

“They look legit,” Nate admits, looking up from the phone. “Landy, do you want a supervisory look?” 

“I don’t need oversight,” Tyson mutters. Gabe is not actually a masochist, so, 

“No, I’m good.” He shakes his head, and starts to get dressed on his own. “I don’t need to worry about T-Bear’s love life, I’ve got my own.” 

“Oh?” Tyson demands. 

“Spill!” Nate jumps in. 

“Are you both teenaged girls?” 

“We just spent ten minutes on my dating life, so now it’s your turn.” Tyson’s glaring at Gabe, and Gabe–well, once he might have imagined something in it, something that was a chance. But he’s getting over that. “Who is this mysterious person?” 

“We met online,” Gabe admits, and Tyson crows. 

“Hah! I told you it was legit!” he tells Nate, stabbing a finger at him. Gabe takes the opportunity to get some pants on. “If even someone who looks like Gabe uses an app, then it’s definitely legit for the rest of us! Wait. Why do you need to use an app?” he asks, turning back to Gabe. “Don’t you just have to like, look at someone for them to lose their pants?” 

Apparently not, Gabe doesn’t say, because he’s looked at Tyson a lot. “The anonymity is nice,” he says instead. “Maybe I want to find someone who likes me for more than my looks.” 

“Yeah, they just like you for your charm and how you’re sweet and funny, that can’t work,” Tyson says, rolling his eyes, and Gabe looks back down at his phone. He’s done reading into shit like that. He’s got someone new, Tyson’s found someone new, it is what it is. “So, tell us? Who is this person?” 

“I’m not saying anything,” Gabe decides. That’s safest. “Once you two get involved it’ll just be hijinks and I don’t want to mess it up.” 

“Hey! I’m way less into hijinks than you are.” 

“You enable him,” Gabe tells Nate. 

“I’m not into hijinks.” 

“But you have watched too many romantic comedies.” 

“Yeah, mostly with you,” Tyson retorts, and Gabe can’t help but laugh. Tyson laughs back, his huge bright smile that Gabe’s spent years wanting to keep on his face all the time. “So, we don’t get anything?” 

“Not unless you want to share about your person,” Gabe retorts, and Tyson goes red and shuts up, like he expected. What he didn’t expect was the little smile at the end of it, fond and pleased, the look Tyson tends to get in a relationship. Gabe wants to hit something. 

Instead, he packs up his stuff. “See you on the bus tonight,” he tells them, and shoulders his bag as he heads out, pulling out his phone. There’s a message already, which makes Gabe smile. 

_You like romantic comedies, right?_ comes the message, and then, hot on its heels,  _Because i’m out of town for a few days, but I’d be into watching one with you when I get back if you’re into it._

“Hey Gabe!” Nate calls, and he follows it up with a question about video review, but Gabe doesn’t hear him. Tyson’s on his phone, smiling that fond smile, and–it could just be a coincidence. 

Gabe just has a sinking feeling it’s not. 


	45. Sid/Geno: One Giant Leap

It’s somehow both quiet and not, out in the black. (Flower makes fun of Geno for calling it that, calls him a dork who’s watched too much sci-fi, but Geno just laughs back at him. They’ve all watched too much sci-fi, it’s why they’re up here. In the black.)

It’s quiet because there’s so much nothing out there. They talk about it, the other astronauts, how much nothing there is, the sheer awe-inspiring size of it. There’s no sound out there. No nothing.

But on the other hand—they’re seven months into their Mars mission, and by now Geno knows way more about the five other people on the spacecraft than he ever wanted to know about anyone, ever. For instance, he knows that Flower never shuts up. That Phil and Amanda can bicker for hours about nothing at all, which Geno understands—he gets siblings—but it’s still irritating. That Sid can talk anyone’s ear off if you start him on one of his specialties. That Gonch will go on and on about the family he left behind, if you even open up the possibility. They’ve all six of them been selected from among the many, many qualified astronauts of their respective countries for compatibility as well as being, as Geno likes to say, the best of the best, and it’s all still claustrophobic. It’s loud because there’s no room for it not to be loud.

Which means that, when Geno gets fed up of Flower and Gonch trading stories about their kids, with Phil talking about his dog, with Sid’s—everything—there’s only a few places for him to go.

The viewport is his favorite of them. It’s just him and the black out here, looking out at where they’ve been, where they’re going. They can’t see Mars right now, given the orbits, but he knows it’s there. The place they’ve all be waiting for for years. One small step, he thinks, and rests his palm on his knee. One small step, and they’ll change human history, the six of them—and mission control back home, of course, but the six of them up here.

Time doesn’t mean much, up here, so Geno’s not sure how long it takes for Sid to come after him. He suspects not long. Sid’s learned to let Geno stew, but his impatience still wins out, generally.

“Hey,” he says, rapping is knuckles on the edge of the door. “Can I come in?”

“Not my space,” Geno replies curtly, but he edges aside so Sid can pull himself up and in. There’s barely room for the two of them; their thighs have to be pressed close. Geno can feel the warmth of Sid’s skin, through his CSA-issued sweatpants. Can feel the shift of his muscle. Can feel too much, and that’s always been the problem. Or maybe Sid’s too much, and that’s really the problem.

“Geno,” Sid retorts, a whine and a warning. Geno rolls his eyes. Sid nudges him with his shoulder. “Okay?” he asks. Lower. More serious.

Geno shrugs. “Yes,” he says, because that’s the most important thing. “Yes, is fine. Just, is…”

He trails off. “Overwhelming?” Sid suggests, and Geno nods. That’s good enough. “I know. It is a lot.”

“Everyone just—so loud.”

“No kidding,” Sid agrees, chuckling. “If I have to hear Gonch snore for one more night, I’m going to expel him with the trash.”

Geno snorts despite his mood. “Think Russia not happy with you, if you do,” he points out.

“It would be for the good of the mission. Russia wants this to work as much as any of us.” Sid sounds so innocent, so bland. “It was a mission necessity, unfortunately.”

Geno glances over. Sid has his most wide-eyed, blank face on, the one that’s been media trained into him since it became clear that he was going to be leading space missions. Geno laughs again, elbows him. “Sid never do. Too responsible.”

“We do need our medic,” Sid agrees, but he sounds a little regretful. “I guess he can stay.”

“Ksenia thank you,” Geno say dryly. They both know, because Sid has told him, about the nightmare scenario Sid’s dreamed up, of having to tell Ksenia he didn’t get her husband back to her. But now’s not the time for that reality.

“I don’t know, maybe she’s enjoying her husband being away,” Sid jokes. “But it might make the girls cry, and I can’t do that. I guess Gonch and Flower both have to stay.”

“Phil have dog,” Geno points out, pretending not to smile. “Dog miss him. Probably.”

“So it’s between you and Amanda,” Sid agrees. “So watch your step.”

“You too,” Geno points out. “Maybe we mutiny.”

“Then you would have to talk to the press and the brass when we get home,” Sid tells him, and Geno shudders. Sid smirks, pleased his barb hit home. “Yeah, I thought so.”

Geno laughs. He can’t help it. Sid’s just—he knows Sid’s always gotten a lot of flack for being a robot, for being so focused on the science of it that he forgets about the people, but to his mind, the people who say that shit don’t know anything. Sid’s the captain of the mission for a lot of reasons, and at least one is that he’s good at managing people.

Or maybe he’s just good at managing Geno. Geno doesn’t let himself think that often, but—but he does always know what to say to Geno. Like Geno doesn’t think he’s fooling himself when he says that he can always get Sid to smile, even when he’s tense and carrying the weight of millions of peoples’ expectations back home.

“There you go,” Sid tells him, smiling smugly. “Feel better?”

“Yes, you best captain, good job.” Geno rolls his eyes and elbows Sid gently.

Sid shakes his head, but his smile fades a little, and he looks out, at the viewport. “I know it’s a lot,” he says slowly. “I do get it. But, Geno—think how worth it it’ll be.”

His eyes light up as he looks out the viewport, at the black. Searching, like they always have—looking for the next challenge, the next planet, the next mountain to scale. Geno’s mouth goes dry. Geno doesn’t let himself love a lot of things about Sid, and this is the thing that he both can’t love and maybe honestly hates most of all. Sid looks beautiful like this, like some old painting of the explorers on the prows of their ships, looking out over the sea, all dark eyes and strong jaw and his hair curling over his forehead because he hasn’t bothered to cut it recently. Sid looks beautiful and Geno wants, and he knows—

“One small step,” Sid says, like he’s said before. Like he’d said that first time, the two of them out hiking in the desert of the American Southwest, getting away from training for a chance to breathe. Sid’s legs were shorter but he’d never let that stop him; he’d scrambled ahead of Geno, until he was at the top of the rock, looking out over the arid, red-orange dirt, with the rock formations climbing in the distance.

One small step, he’d said then, looking out into the distance, seeing—as they both were, and they both knew—a different red-orange world. One small step, and another and then—we’ll have changed everything. The two of us. He’d sounded breathless and awed and resolute, and the wind had whipped through his hair—regulation short then—and his cheeks were a little red and he was smiling like he didn’t know how not to, and that was maybe the first time Geno noticed, though it must have happened before: Sid was looking out, always ahead, always for more, and Geno was looking at Sid.

“One small step,” Geno repeats, because he does believe. He does want. He wants that, what Sid wants—that step. That footprint forever enshrined in history.

He just wants other things, too. Wants things that take looking back, too.

“Sid,” he starts. Stops. They’re on this craft for another year, minimum; if he’s wrong, if something goes wrong—but he’s already on edge because of this. It must be better for morale if he says something. “You ever think…”

Sid turns to him, and his eyes are golden brown like the trees back home. “Geno,” he cuts him off. Geno frowns.

“No, I—”

“Geno,” Sid says again, and he looks serious again, and nervous, licking his lip. “We have to keep going, you know? We can’t get—we can’t look away right now. I can’t look away,” he corrects, and he’s staring at Geno like Geno’s supposed to understand. Geno does, he thinks. He and Sid could talk to each other before they shared a language. Their legs are still so close. “There can’t be anything but that step, you know? That’s what’ll get us there. I can’t risk…”

He trails off, but Geno knows too. Knows the expectations they all bear, and Sid most of all; knows the very real, very dangerous consequences of what could happen if they make even the tiniest mistake. And he’s only second in command; he’s seen Sid’s face, gaze flicking over each of them sometimes, like he was counting. Reassuring himself they were all there, he had gotten them all there whole. Sid needs to keep his gaze forward, needs to keep dreaming and driving them out into the black.

But—“We take that step, eventually,” Geno points out. “We go back.”  

Sid’s brow furrows, like he hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the idea of being back on Earth is utterly foreign to him. Maybe he really had forgotten that there was something behind him, that there was an after. Maybe he’ll get right on another shuttle. He probably will. Geno too, if he’s being honest. But first.  

“Yeah,” he agrees slowly.

“So?” Geno asks, his heart in his throat. This moment has been building since he shook the young Canadian captain’s hand, and their eyes had met and Geno had known. Or maybe since that rockface, when Geno had seen the world spread out in front of him and looked at Sid. “When we back?”

“Back,” Sid says quietly. Like he’s tasting the word. He looks away from the viewport, from the black, and down at Geno’s face.

Then he reaches out, and his hand settles on Geno’s, over his thigh. “Back home,” he says again, and lets his hand rest there as they look back up, into the black.

_(“What’s the first thing you’re going to do, now that you’re back?” a reporter asks, over the clamor of the press conference. Geno glances down the line of them, to where Sid’s sitting nearest to the interviewer. He’s back in uniform, and if he’s gaunt after the expedition, so are they all. He’s still the most beautiful person Geno’s ever seen, though he’s not sure anything will ever match the moment of that small, barely audible thud of foot hitting red-orange dirt._

_But this is close, as Sid’s gaze flicks to Geno, and his eyes light up, almost like they did, looking out at the stars. “I’m not sure,” Sid says into the microphone. “I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.”)_


	46. Tyler/Jamie: 5 Headcanons, soulmates AU

Tyler gets his soul mark early. Not early enough for it to really be a  _thing_ –there are people who are born with their soul marks, that’s always a cause for remark–but early enough that he can’t remember not having it, though his mom sometimes tells the story about how she was taking off his snow gear only to find the twisting lines on his right side, high up on the ribs. Sometimes he likes to think he can remember it, remember the slight sting and the knowing that something was different, that he had someone out there waiting for him, to complete him, but in his heart of heart he knows that’s not true. Sometimes he likes that better, anyway. The idea that he can’t remember a time without someone out there for him. 

It makes him impatient sometimes, sure–no one really gets why your soul mark shows up when it does, but everyone agrees there isn’t correlation between when you get it and when you meet your soul mate–but it’s a comfort, too. When he loses, and he can push his hand against it, remember there’s someone out there who will make him better. When his parents yell and fight, and he can trace the edges and tell himself that someone loves him, someone will love him, he has someone who completes him. 

When he gets to Boston, and everything is so much and it’s all happening and once and he’s winning and on top of the world and off-kilter, and he can’t stop, and when anyone says anything he can flick at the soul mark and grin, tell them that he’s just having fun in the mean time–when he finds his soulmate, he’ll settle down. They’re his soulmate–they won’t care what he’s been doing in the mean time. 

What he doesn’t say then, what he doesn’t say as he spins out and up and out of control, is that maybe he needs to find his soulmate. He’s falling off balance and he can tell; he needs his soulmate to set him straight, he thinks. To keep him whole. That’s why, he tells himself, when he gets the call about the trade, and his house of cards comes tumbling down. He didn’t have his soulmate. Of course he’s going to fuck up. He’s only half of what he should be–other than hockey, of course. 

* * *

Jamie’s mark doesn’t show up. At first, he waits for it–Jordie got his early, and his mom did too, so it’s not inconceivable that he’d get his as a teen. It would be nice, he thinks, as he deals with being bigger and slower than the other guys on the team. It would be nice to have someone you know loves you. 

But until then–until, he has his family and Jordie and then his team, and he grows. He fills out and figures out his body and then he’s not getting teased on teams anymore, he’s leading them. He’s winning. He’s no prodigy, maybe, but he’s good. And a part of him wonders–maybe that’ll earn him his soulmate. 

But it doesn’t. He’s drafted, low but he’s in the NHL, and nothing shows up, even as his teammates start to get their soulmates. As a few of them even start to meet their soulmates. Nothing Jamie does can earn him his soulmate, and a part of him wonders why–if it’s something about him. If maybe he talks too softly, or he’s too shy or slow. It makes him want to close off even more, turn in on himself; the knowledge that there isn’t a person out there who he knows will support him no matter what (other than his family, who have to, he figures; it’s not the same). 

Then Jamie’s in Dallas, and he still doesn’t have a mark and they’re nowhere near a playoff spot and it doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe he won’t ever have a soulmate. He can play his best hockey anyway, even if it’s not enough. But he can be captain without a soul mark, apparently, though no one’s officially said it yet; he can be good enough to go to the All Star game, even if he’s almost picked last. 

He might not be enough for a soulmate, Jamie decides, as they lose and lose, but damn it if he’s going to let that stop him from playing his best game. Especially with Seguin coming–whatever reservations Jamie might have about him personally, Jamie’s ready to see what he’ll do to the team. 

* * *

Tyler meets Jamie, down in Dallas to find an apartment, and there’s no  _click._  He’s met Benn before, at the All Star Game; he’d liked him well enough but he’d been quiet and not really anyone Tyler paid a lot of attention to. Then, after the trade, Tyler had been sort of unofficially on house arrest and didn’t have anything to do but watch tape, and–he’s paying attention to Jamie now. But that’s on the ice. Off the ice, Jamie is still quiet, even with the new C on his jersey, and he blushes and he clearly isn’t into talking to the press. 

But he’s also–he’s just a good guy, in a way Tyler can’t quite compute with someone so withdrawn. If he were someone like Jamie, someone good and steady and even-keeled, he wouldn’t be ducking away from cameras. But Jamie does, and Jamie also invites Tyler into his house and doesn’t say anything when Tyler probably outstays his welcome because he doesn’t know anyone else here yet and he just–he likes the feel of the Benns’ apartment. He likes how Jordie and Jamie rag on each other and how Jamie, who’s all captain business on the ice, turns into the whining little brother. He likes how they bring him into the ragging, easy as anything. 

He likes it enough that sometimes, Tyler wonders, and rubs at his arm. He still feels a little off balance, still is reeling from the trade, but–he thinks it’s better here. he thinks it has something to do with Jamie. 

But he’s looked, and he doesn’t think Jamie has a mark on him–nowhere he can see, and there’s not much he can’t see in the locker rooms. Jamie’s definitely seen his, anyway–has looked at it and then turned a little red when Tyler caught him–and he hasn’t said anything. That must mean he doesn’t match; basically everyone has a soulmark by the time they’re in their mid-20s, and if anyone deserves someone, it’s Jamie–deserves someone who’ll lift him up and make him laugh and get that shy, goofy smile out of him, the one he does when he doesn’t really believe he’s as funny as he is. Tyler will find his match, he guess. Someone who makes him whole. Although, if that isn’t Jamie–if Jamie can’t–Tyler doesn’t know who could be better. 

* * *

Tyler talks about his soul mark all the time, and it means Jamie can’t stop looking at it. It’s just–there, dark as all the rest of his tattoos, easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking fo. Jamie does know what he’s looking for, though. 

He doesn’t know why it bothers him. Tyler’s not the first guy who talks all the time about his soul mark, about what it’ll mean–to Tyler, apparently, it’ll be awesome sex, or that’s what he says in the locker room. Jamie’s coming to learn that what Tyler says isn’t always what he really means, in his heart of hearts, but that’s what he says. Other guys in the locker room always chip in too; the ones who have found their soul marks teasing Tyler and the rest of them who haven’t about what they should expect, about how Tyler won’t know his because he’ll already have moved on. 

Jamie stays quiet, through all of that. He doesn’t know who knows he doesn’t have his mark yet–Jordie, obviously, but he thinks some other guys have guessed. He doesn’t think Tyler has; the guys who guess have always gone quiet around him when talking about it. He’s all right, doesn’t need it really. He’s accepted that he probably doesn’t have a soul mate. 

Except–except sometimes Tyler grins at him when he says something stupid, like Jamie’s the funniest person in the world; except he and Tyler work together on the ice like no one Jamie’s ever played with; except Tyler nudges Jamie whenever he talks too quietly and makes him speak up. It’s…things Jamie didn’t know he wanted. Things he thought he couldn’t have, without a soulmate. Things he can’t have, because Tyler has a soul mark, and Jamie doesn’t, and Jamie has to live with that. 

* * *

At the end of their first season together, they’ve just crashed out of the playoffs and they’re drinking away their sorrows at a bar, apparently, because that’s where Tyler’s led them, and Jamie’s gone along with it because getting drunk sounds pretty good. 

It feels good, too–Jamie has to keep it together while he’s with the guys, while he has to be captain, and that helps him fool himself into thinking that he has it together. Later, he’ll go home, and he’ll probably fall apart on Jordie, but right now, he’s taking care of his team. He’s okay at that part. Not the rest of it, apparently, but that part. 

So he drinks and he watches his teammates get drunk and the ones who have someone go home to their soulmates, and he watches as Tyler drinks and dances and drinks some more, laughing and wild like Jamie’s heard stories about but never saw in Dallas. It’s gorgeous, to be sure, Tyler burning bright like a flare about to go about, but Jamie also–he’s a worrier, he can’t help it, and when he sees Tyler start to stumble he gets up. 

“Jamie!” Tyler grins at him, listing into his side. “We lost and I barely even feel it!” 

“I don’t think you’re feeling anything,” Jamie points out, and tugs Tyler with him, back to the booth. Tyler collapses next to him. “Are you okay?” Jamie asks, then shakes his head at himself. What a stupid fucking question. 

Tyler seems to take it seriously, though. “Losing sucks,” he concludes, with the sort of certainty that comes from being very drunk. 

“No fucking kidding,” Jamie agrees darkly. But then, “I mean,” Jamie corrects himself, before Tyler can answer. “Are you…you haven’t done this, really. Since you’ve been here.” 

Tyler shrugs. “I’m all spinny, you know? I thought it was better but we lost and this is how you’re supposed to handle it, you know?” 

“I don’t think drinking yourself into a coma is–” 

“Stop being boring, Benny.” 

“Stop getting alcohol poisoning, Seggy.” 

Tyler laughs, then it seems like he can’t stop laughing. He mostly falls into Jamie’s side while he does, warm and heavy. Jamie can see his soulmark on his arm, just on the edge of his sleeve. “I don’t think I’m okay,” he admits, into Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie rubs at his back. “I don’t think I know how to be.” 

“Welcome to the club,” Jamie says, and Tyler snorts. “What?” 

“You’re always okay,” he tells Jamie, like it’s a fact. “I don’t know how you are.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I’m all…” He waves his hand again. “I’m just fucking waiting, you know? For…” he rubs at his arm. “And then I think I’ll be okay, because I’ll be like, finished, you know? Like you are. I’m still waiting and so I’m all–half. Right?” 

Jamie takes a second to parse it, which is hard when Tyler’s looking at him with big eyes like Jamie knows everything. “At least you know there’s someone to wait for,” he mutters, bitter. Tyler’s eyes go even wider. 

“You have someone,” he says, with the same drunken certainty, and reaches up to pat Jamie’s face. “I don’t know how you couldn’t.“ 

Jamie chuckles dryly. “Maybe if we win,” he says, and Tyler makes a face, but doesn’t say anything back. 

* * *

Jamie wins the Art Ross, and Tyler isn’t on the ice. 

He watches instead. Watches as his teammates crash into Jamie and Jamie lights up, grinning like he knows he deserves this, which is the sort of smile Tyler always wants Jamie to have, but–he wasn’t there. 

It should have been him, giving him the assist. Being the first to hug him. He rubs at his arm. It should have been him, except he’d been an idiot and been careless and–fuck, Jamie’s face when it had been announced. When he’d looked at Tyler like he expected Tyler to have a good excuse, and Tyler just–didn’t. 

Tyler never wants to see Jamie’s face fall like that. 

He finds Jamie after everything’s wrapped up, once the media’s gone and so are most of the guys. Jamie’s media had lasted longer than anyone else’s, obviously, so he’s the last guy in the locker room, and even he’s just packing up his bag when Tyler gets there. Maybe on purpose. He hadn’t wanted to face anyone else. He doesn’t want to face Jamie either, honestly, but–he gets that he has to. And he’s leaving soon, and Jamie’s going to get surgery, and he can’t just not say something. 

“Hey,” he says, to Jamie’s back. Jamie straightens. Turns. He’s got his wide-eyed media face on still, the one that looks a little shell-shocked. “Congratulations,” he tries, grinning. 

“Better than nothing,” Jamie agrees, shrugging. 

“Yeah, the Art Ross, oh no,” Tyler retorts. “Just some minor hardware.” 

“Not the one I wanted,” Jamie shoots back, then he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I don’t know.” 

“I get it,” Tyler tells him, because he thinks he does. He’s so fucking proud of Jamie, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to raise the Cup with him. To get matching tattoos to go with the one already on his ribs. “But this is–it’s huge, man.” 

Jamie raises his eyebrows, and his face is doing the thing where he shuts down. “I didn’t know you thought so,” he says, always so passive aggressive. 

Tyler deserves it though, so he takes it. “I’m sorry,” he says, because that’s all he can say. “I should have–I don’t know, I was stupid, you know how I get, I’m all–” he waves his hand, in the way he knows Jamie knows means how he gets when he feels off balance, incomplete without his other half. “I’ll be better.” 

“Yeah.” Jamie shoulders his bag. Then he stops. Looks at Tyler. “Look, Segs. Maybe you’ll feel better once you find your soulmate. But you’ve got to be a person on your own too. You can’t just spend your life expecting you’ll magically be better once you find your soul mate.” He swallows. “For one thing, it kind of fucks over the people in your life right now.” 

Tyler freezes. Jamie pushes past him, towards the door. “Jamie–” he starts–he just doesn’t want Jamie to leave like that. He can’t have Jamie leave like that. “I never meant–” 

Jamie shakes his head. “Good luck at Worlds,” he says, and leaves. Tyler stares after him. He’s had a few major life changes in his life, but he’s never felt quite like the rug has been yanked out from under him like this. 

* * *

Years pass. Years pass, and Tyler takes what Jamie said to heart–he works on growing up. On becoming a person on his own. He gets more dogs. He buys a house. He grows and settles and Jamie watches and is proud of his friend. 

Of course, as Tyler grows up, it all gets more confusing in Jamie’s head. Tyler’s always been his best friend, but he doesn’t know how to handle him being a responsible (not too responsible) adult as well. He’s going to find his soulmate soon, Jamie always has to remind himself. He’s going to find his soulmate, and Jamie’s going on 28 and still markless. He can’t let himself feel anything else. He doesn’t particularly want his heart broken. And anyway–even if Jamie had a mark, he’s better but he’s still too quiet and too shy and he hasn’t won the Cup and he’s clearly not a soulmate for someone like Tyler. 

It’s fine. Jamie knows how to be alone. 

* * *

Jamie’s in the locker room after a long, hard-fought game that ended on a gorgeous goal from Tyler off of his assist when he finds it. He’s getting changed, half-laughing at Tyler’s joking with Rads, when he sees the mark on his left pec. 

He rubs at it at first, thinking its dirt or something. but it doesn’t come off. It doesn’t come off, and Jamie looks again, at the dark lines etched into his skin, that definitely hadn’t been there before the game. 

He blinks. Freezes. He’d spent so long thinking it would never happen–and now? Today? There was nothing special about today. It was just a day like any other. Except for how his mark has come in, and he can’t–

“Benny?” Spezza asks, looking over at where Jamie’s frozen in place, staring down at his chest. “You okay?” 

“Um.” Jamie swallows. “Yeah,” he says, and grabs at his shirt. 

But Spezza’s words had undeniably attracted attention, and the shirt’s barely over his head before– “Shit, is that a mark?” Tyler says, and his jaw actually drops. “Jamie, did you finally–” 

“Holy shit!” comes someone else, and then, 

“Congratulations!” Rads booms, and everyone’s saying things and looking at him and Jamie’s whole world is shifting and he can’t–

“Okay, everyone chill,” Tyler announces, and steps forward to tug Jamie’s shirt down over his chest. He only pauses for a second when he sees the mark up close, then keeps pulling until it’s covered. Jamie feels more solid like that. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Sure, is big deal,” Rads argues. “You gonna fight Benny’s soulmate for honor?” 

Tyler makes a face. “Fuck off,” He tells him, but he’s still hovering close to Jamie. “I’ll fight your soulmate for the honor of getting you away from here.” 

“She win,” Rads informs him confidently, which gets everyone side tracked, like Jamie’s pretty sure he was meant to. 

Jamie finishes getting dressed on autopilot. He should–he should call his parents, he guesses. Definitely Jordie–Jamie’s pretty sure that someone in the room is tattling on him to his brother even as he finishes getting dressed. But he can’t–

Tyler stays close as Jamie finishes, then he trails Jamie out of the locker room, cheerfully flipping off everyone who chirps him with a, “He’s overcome, can’t have him getting in an accident!” 

“You don’t have to,” Jamie mumbles, as they head towards their cars. “I’m–I mean, I guess I’m okay.” 

“Fuck off to you too,” Tyler informs him, a little more pointedly. “You really aren’t.” 

“I’m–” Jamie swallows. “I just didn’t think it was possible you know? That i could, like–that anyone would–” 

“Screw that.” Tyler shoves at Jamie. “Screw–no. And fuck the universe for making you think that.” 

“Seggy!” 

“Benny,” Tyler retorts, rolling his eyes. They get to their cars, and Tyler hesitates. “Can I, um. Actually. Come over? The dogs miss you.” 

It’s an excuse, but Jamie doesn’t want to be alone right now, and he think Tyler’s getting that. It’s taken some time, but Tyler’s figured out the difference between when Jamie needs to be alone and when he shouldn’t be. “Yeah. If the dogs miss me.” 

Tyler grins, but it’s a little weak. 

Jamie follows Tyler back to his house, and he greets the dogs as Tyler grabs them both gatorade and gets some leftovers out of the fridge. 

“I don’t think you’re the one who’s supposed to be weird right now,” Jamie tells him, when the dogs have quieted down. Tyler smiles, crooked. 

“Yeah, well. This isn’t pressure, okay? I didn’t–I mean, maybe I’m wrong, I only caught a glimpse, and it’s been years, but–” he shakes his head. “Look, just take off your shirt, okay?” 

“Um.” Jamie pauses. “Why?” 

“Just do it.” When Jamie still hesitates, Tyler sighs. “Come on, man. Trust me? It’s not anything bad, I think. I hope.” 

Jamie does, is the thing, so he strips off his shirt. The mark is still there, dark and curved and disconcerting. 

Tyler steps forward, leans closer, so he’s just staring at Jamie’s chest. Jamie takes a breath; regulates his breathing. He has a soulmate, apparently. He’s fine. 

Then Tyler reaches out, and his finger ghosts over the mark, and Jamie shivers and has to ask, “Segs?” 

“I–” Tyler lifts his head, and his eyes are wide and astounded and confused and lighting up like they do when they win a big game, when he brought home one of the dogs. He shoves up his sleeve, twists his arm so that the mark is next to Jamie’s. “They match.” 

“What?” 

“They match. We match.” Tyler’s staring at their marks again. Jamie’s staring at them. There they are. The same. Matching. “Holy shit. We  _match_!” 

“But–it’s been years,” Jamie says. He doesn’t–it’s still settling in. He’s spent years thinking he didn’t have a soulmate. That he didn’t deserve Tyler. Why would that change now? “Why–” 

“Who gives a fuck?” Tyler demands. He traces Jamie’s mark again, harder. 

“But I don’t–” 

“If the next word is something self-deprecating, I will actually deck you,” Tyler warns. He sounds like he might mean it, too. 

Jamie swallows. “I don’t, like. Complete you or whatever it was you were looking for. I didn’t–” 

“Yeah, because you told me I had to complete myself,” Tyler contradicts, and his arms are sliding up Jamie’s chest. “Fair warning–you have like ten seconds to say no to this before I kiss you. Because I’ve wanted to do this for years and you’re my soulmate so maybe I actually finally–” 

Jamie decides to take some initiative, and kisses him first. 

* * *

“Yeah no duh,” Jordie says, when Jamie finally calls him. Tyler’s sprawled over Jamie’s back, watching the brothers Skype. He hasn’t been able to stop grinning for probably hours. The dogs are stetched out around them, and Tyler can see Jamie’s mark from here, and tomorrow they’ll go to practice and play a game and rinse and repeat for years and he couldn’t be happier about that. “What took you so long?“

Tyler rubs over Jamie’s soulmark again, because it makes Jamie go red in such interesting ways. “Who cares? It’s worth the wait.” 


	47. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, actor/celebrity AU

Sid is the classic child star gone right story. He probably won his first Oscar at like 10, but he never had the mental break–he just kept working, and kept making hits. Some people say it’s because he’s that steady and grounded. Other people say it’s because he’s a robot–he’s a great actor but he’s known for being the least interesting interview you can have, because he’s been so very media trained, though everyone who meets him also says he’s also always very nice. He also, of course, has a reputation for being hard to work with as a co-star or a director–he doesn’t pretend he’s not a perfectionist. But he keeps making good movies, sometimes even great ones, and the awards keep coming and so do the box office returns, and if he’s not the most interesting actor in the world he’s definitely a reliable one. 

Which is why everyone’s surprised, when he takes the role as the leader in the newest superhero ensemble movie. 

* * *

That everyone includes Geno. No one is more surprised than Geno, when he’s cast as the lancer/foil/eventual second in command to Sid’s leader. He’s basically unknown in Hollywood at this point–he made some Russian movies that were well received, but nothing that’s particularly made it into the US. But when he hears  _Sidney Crosby_ –whose career he’s watched with excitement and delight and competitiveness from an ocean away–is going to be in this movie, he throws everything he has into the audition. He needs to act with Sidney Crosby. He’s going to get this role. These are the things that Geno knows. He’s ready for Sidney to be exacting and difficult and bratty and all the things that he’s heard about, because it’s all going to be worth it to be in one of his movies and make it to those sorts of audience. 

What he’s not ready for is to meet Sidney at their first table read, and for Sidney to stick out his hand like he’s been doing for all the rest of the cast, from the lowest to the highest–and the crew too, Geno later hears–and shake his hand heartily. And, while Geno’s still working on remembering English in the face of meeting him and the realization that he’s even more attractive in person, fuck, Sidney grins sheepishly. “I’m really excited to do this with you,” he says, a little bashful. “I’m a big fan–I’ve been watching all your movies. I mean, I don’t understand a lot of them, but you’re good enough that I don’t need to.” 

Geno swallows his tongue. Then he just swallows, as he tries to figure out what to say. He actually does know how to speak English, and he’s been brushing up for this role. He just wasn’t prepared to speak English in the face of Sidney Crosby telling him he’s a fan of  _Geno_. “Thanks,” he says at last, enunciating carefully. Sidney waits patiently. “I’m big fan too. Watch all your movies, from when I kid.” 

Sidney gives another humble little shrug. “Oh, well,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something. Then he straightens. “Do you want to get together sometime to flesh out our roles’ relationship?” he asks–or well, demands. “I was doing some research into military bonds, but I’m not sure that’s all there is between our characters–I’m thinking about playing mine…” 

That, Geno thinks, trying desperately to follow along, is more what he was expecting. 

* * *

Sidney tells the press he took this film to widen his range, to keep from being typecast, to reach more people. What he doesn’t tell the press is he took it because he’s been bored. It’s getting rote. He never thought it would–he loves acting more than anything, he’s devoted his life to it–but recently it’s been getting stale. His agent suggested he take a break–he doesn’t have to work again, money-wise–but that doesn’t compute with Sid. Instead, he found a role that will hopefully make him remember why he loves to act. That will make it fun again. 

And–it does. Sid’s incapable of not throwing himself into a role 500%, and he does it this time too–his character’s fascinating, a combination of loyalty and PTSD and expediency that he relates to more than he wants–but it’s… it’s also reading comics in his trailer, with whoever else on the cast is around that day. It’s being dragged out to drinks with the rest of the cast. It’s being on a green screen and seeing himself fly.  

It’s Geno listening to him talk about his character motivations and run lines with him and push him in every scene they have together. It’s Geno hanging around his trailer–”You have nicest trailer, make most money, have to put up with us take advantage”–and making space in his life and laughing at him when he stops to sign autographs and teasing Sid for how uncomfortable he seems, even now. Sid’s trying not to think about how much of how good this role is is because of Geno. Shooting friendships–or more–linger on, in Sid’s experience, but they’re never quite as intense. Sid’s learned to take them as they are, for as long as they are. 

* * *

“Were they supposed to have so much…subtext?” an AD asks, watching Sid and Geno shoot a scene. 

“They are now,” the director tells him. “Zoom in on six.” 

* * *

Geno’s not really lying to himself. He never stood a chance against Sid. He was primed for a crush, given his longstanding appreciation of his work, but how was he supposed to stand up to the reality of it? He’s had unrequited crushes before, it’s fine. Sid keeps his private life so intensely private that Geno doesn’t know who he’s into, or if he’s into anyone at all. It’s probably better that way anyway. Geno does want to go back to Russia, to have a career in both countries, and if he were to do anything with Sid–Sid’s a household name. There’s no way Geno could keep it quiet. Geno’s not even sure he’d want to. 

* * *

Sid is lying to himself. Sid’s had a few very quiet, very discrete, very easy relationships, which generally fizzled because of Sid’s schedule or because they didn’t want to be quiet and discrete. People don’t get it, generally–Sid’s kept his sanity because he’s kept such a tight control over what he gives other people. He’s seen what happens, to the celebrities who give too much and end up having nothing left for themselves. Sid can’t do that. Sid won’t do that. Sid guards himself jealously, because no one else is going to. And Geno–Geno who loves so loudly, who gives of himself so freely to everyone who passes, who has yet to really deal with the shitshow of US stardom though Sid knows he will as soon as this movie hits screens–Geno’s not made for Sid’s sort of love. So Sid lies to himself, and says he doesn’t care. 

* * *

“Do you wanna know my secret?” Sid asks. It’s late, and they’re both a little drunk–they’d been running lines until they got too tired and the booze was brought out, and because Geno’s got a shirtless scene tomorrow they’re drinking hard alcohol instead of beer. So now they’re passing Geno’s flask back and forth, Geno slumped back on the couch and Sid sprawled over it, his head on Geno’s lap. Sid, Geno’s learned, doesn’t really have a conception of normal physical boundaries, raised as he was on movie sets and fans. Geno is very much not complaining. it means he has an excuse to run his fingers over Sid’s hair, tug a little at the curls. 

“Secret for what?” he asks, amused. Sid’s definitely drunker than he is. 

“For–staying sane. You’ll need it too,” Sid warns, and he blinks up at Geno. “When everyone wants a part of you, you’ll need to learn.” 

“You think I’m gonna be famous?” Geno teases, and Sid grins. 

“I know it,” he says. Geno can’t help preening at that. Then, “I sort of wish you wouldn’t.” 

Geno stops preening. “Why? Can’t handle competition?” he demands, louder maybe than he has to to hide the hurt. 

“No.” Sid smiles, and it’s sad. “I like you how you are. I don’t want you to lose that.” 

“I won’t.” 

“You will,” Sid tells him, with a sigh of long experience. “That’s why you can’t let anyone else know. Let anyone else see you. If people see you, they’ll ask for more and more until you’re all gone.” 

It sounds sad, to Geno. “Sounds lonely,” he points out. Looks down at Sid, flushed and warm and so very human on the couch, and thinks of the image he has behind a camera. 

Sid shrugs. “Better than the alternative, though.” He looks at Geno, very long, very deep. “I don’t know how to stay sane any other way, you know?” 

Geno knows. Or no, he doesn’t, but–he gets what Sid is telling him. Gets it, and understands, sort of, even if his heart is breaking. “I know,” he says, and lets himself run his fingers through Sid’s hair one more time. 

* * *

“So what was it like playing against Evegeni Malkin?” the reporter asks at the premier. "Was it a big change for you?” 

Sid smiles, his perfectly crafted media smile. “It was great,” he says. “Geno’s one of the best actors I’ve had the privilege to work with. You’ll see once you see the movie–he’s going to blow you all away.” 

“So are you looking forward to the sequel?” Sid looks over to where Geno’s holding court, the reporters laughing and smiling around him. Geno looks up, like he could sense Sid, and he grins and winks, clearly having the time of his life. 

“Yes,” Sid says. “I’m looking forward to a long and successful partnership.” 

* * *

It takes four movies, eight years, and a hefty AO3 pairing for both them and their characters, before Geno corners Sid again. It’s at the premiere party for the movie that’s going to end both their contracts, so they just watched the final movie. It’s been eight years of a successful partnership, and Geno figuring out how to deal with his new fame and understanding more where Sid was coming from, and eight years of Sid for the first time really wanting someone he can’t let himself have, and realizing what he’s been giving up. 

And now–now they’re in a Hollywood garden, and they just watched a movie which ended with a shot Sid didn’t even really remember, with him resting his hand on Geno’s as they talked about the future. 

“How you like movie?” Geno asks. His English is perfect when he wants it to be, by now; with Sid he doesn’t care. “Last one.” 

“Yeah. It was good.” Sid always has critiques, of his performance and everyone else’s, but he also knows now isn’t the time to air those. “The ending wasn’t what I expected.” 

“What you expect?” Geno asks. He leans over, looming into Sid’s space. 

“I…” Sid shrugs. “That was a romance ending. But it wasn’t a love story.” 

Geno takes a step closer, and he’s looking down at Sid as intent as he’s ever looked. “Wasn’t it?” 

“Geno–” Sid starts, but Geno cuts him off. 

“We do it your way for years, Sid. Maybe you were right then.” 

“Maybe?” 

“Maybe,” Geno confirms. “But–it’s been long time.” 

“And you’ve only gotten more famous. You get what I meant now.” 

“Maybe.” Geno reaches out, takes Sid’s hand, and Sid lets him. “And I was right. it is lonely.” 

“You never seemed lonely,” Sid bites back, then regrets it when Geno’s eyes glint. 

“You looking?” 

“That was never the question.” Sid meets Geno’s eyes, and this is a man who’s stood up to hordes of reporters and the most demanding of directors. “I can’t–I can’t be anyone who I’m not.” It’s the best way he can explain it. “And I don’t want you to be either.” 

Geno rolls his eyes. “Is called compromise, Sid,” He tells him, and, like one of the romance heroes he’s occasionally played, brings Sid’s hand to his lips. “We superheroes, you not know? We can figure it out.” 

And he grins at Sid, and it’s–Sid remembers what it feels like to fly. “Yeah,” Sid agrees, maybe not 100% convinced but getting there. “Maybe we can.” 


	48. Tyson/Gabe: 5 Headcanons, dogwalker AU

Gabe gets into dogwalking mainly by accident. He likes dogs, he needs an interim job to fill in some gaps during grad school, there’s a post about there being openings on Wag, a dogwalking app, and well. He figures it can’t hurt. So he signs up. And it’s what it seems to be–it’s chill, people seem to like him, he gets to hang out with dogs and make money. it all seems win-win. Except for how there are some owners who get a little, well–Gabe’s had to perfect the line of being friendly but clearly not flirting, so he doesn’t get any overtures he has to turn down, which is always awkward. But making a clear line that he won’t let himself be interested in, let alone date, a client, makes it easier–he can always say that, if anyone gets pushy. 

 Then he gets the job to walk Nate-fucking-Mackinnon’s dog. Which is pretty cool–”he’s a really good hockey player!” he tells Bea when he calls home and she laughs at how much of a jock he is–right up until the moment when he knocks on the door, it opens, Tyson Barrie’s face shows for a second, and then the door slams in his face. 

* * *

“This isn’t okay,” Tyson moans, once the door’s closed actually behind the new dog walker, who he has of course completely humiliated himself in front of by being unprepared to see someone that attractive at the door. “Dogwalkers are supposed to be teenaged kids. They aren’t supposed to be attractive.” 

“He came very highly reviewed,” Nate says. He is definitely laughing at Tyson. He can laugh; he had a perfectly normal conversation with the man–Landeskog–about Duke and what he’ll need for dogwalking. He didn’t hang around awkwardly in the background trying to figure out what to say without sounding like an idiot. 

“Well, if we’re ever going to be here at the same time again, you need to warn me so I can go never show my face ever,” Tyson tells him, and then they have to get to practice so he only dwells on it a little bit. it’s not like Tyson doesn’t have experience humiliating himself in front of hot guys. he’s been told it’s part of his charm. 

* * *

Gabe mostly forgets about the awkward first meeting at Mackinnon-call me Nate–no call him Nate-Dawg-no please don’t’s.  Duke’s a sweet dog, and he barely sees Mackinnon off a TV screen, let alone Barrie. Maybe he’s a little more invested in the Avs now that he’s seen them, now that he’s paid by them, but that’s not a big deal. He just walks the dog. 

Until–he’s actually watching the game, when Barrie goes down, and winces when he’s helped up by a trainer and it’s clear he’s not coming back soon. Gabe’s disappointed, he’ll admit. Weird first meeting aside–Barrie in person was a lot quieter than he’d have expected from his interviews–he likes watching Barrie’s hockey. 

What he doesn’t expect, though maybe in retrospect he should, is when he comes to pick up Duke for their walk a few days later, and instead of the usual quiet in Mackinnon’s house he’s greeted by Duke coming excitedly up and Barrie limping after him on crutches, his leg in a big cast. “I get bored at my house alone,” he explains, at Gabe’s confused look. “Here at least I have some company. I thought Nate warned you.” 

“No, he didn’t, sorry,” Gabe tells him, and Barrie shrugs. 

“It’s not like I can walk him,” he says, and leans heavily against the wall. "Go on, do your thing. I’ll still be here.” 

So Gabe does. He goes and walks the dog and when he gets back Barrie’s on the couch, and he laughs and winces when Duke jumps up to lick at his face, and it’s–it’s a nicer laugh even then it is on screen. Which is fine. Gabe is fine. “Do you need anything?” he asks, because he feels like he should, and Barrie shrugs and chuckles sheepishly. 

“Would you mind grabbing me some Gatorage?” he asks. “I’m really not supposed to be moving much.” 

So Gabe does. Then he apparently gets the wrong flavor, and Barrie starts educating him on why it’s wrong–and why Nate’s wrong for even stocking it–and he’s wrong so Gabe has to correct him, and the next thing he knows he’s late for class and he has to run. 

* * *

It’s not like Tyson only stays at Nate’s a lot while he’s injured because of the hot dogwalker. Nate’s has Duke for company and his parents are around enough that Nate always has good food in the fridge and it’s nice to see Nate when he’s not traveling or practicing with the team. 

But also–Gabe comes by once a day, and Tyson gets to chat with him, and he’s hot and funny and he bosses Tyson around in a way that Tyson’s pretty into, whenever Tyson tries to get up or do something to stress his leg. Tyson isn’t necessarily trying to flirt with him, even–he really does get bored, with the team away so often and not being able to drive, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to. But also. Maybe he flirts. Sometimes. Gabe doesn’t really flirt back, but he doesn’t seem bothered, so Tyson figures it’s okay. They have fun, anyway. It makes the weeks of Tyson’s injury go by much faster. 

* * *

Gabe is having Problems, and they all center around the fact that he is not allowed to be interested in the people whose dog he walks and Tyson is cute and funny and easy to be around and charming and flirty and good with Duke and Gabe is frantically trying to hold onto his resolve and also trying to justify it away and resisting the urge to bring Zoey over one day to introduce them even if he thinks that’ll just destroy him if Tyson’s cute with her. 

It’s started to come down to pros and cons lists, every time Gabe drives away from Mackinnon’s house. Con: He doesn’t know if Tyson’s even actually into guys. Pro: Tyson’s not technically his client. Con: Tyson is sort of his client. Pro: Tyson had smiled at Gabe today like he was in on the joke and Gabe had wanted to kiss it away. Con: he’s in the NHL and Gabe is just some grad student. Pro: he’s in the  _NHL_. Con: Gabe has a rule he can’t break. Pro: Gabe really wants to break the rule. 

So he sort of flirts and sort of doesn’t, because it’s a minute to minute thing, how much he’s able to resist, and in the background is the clock of Tyson’s injury ticking down, because once it’s healed Tyson’s going back on the road and presumably won’t be at Mackinnon’s all the time and he’ll be back in his real life with his NHL players and the people who hang around them. Gabe’s a realist. After that, the point’s going to become moot. If it isn’t already. 

* * *

It all comes to a breaking point the day after Tyson’s cast gets replaced with a lighter splint, and when Gabe comes by Tyson’s standing at the kitchen table, crowing about it on facetime to his sister. He hangs up when he sees Gabe, though, and sticks out his leg. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he demands. “Look at it. It weighs like a hundred pounds less.” 

“The most beautiful leg I’ve ever seen,” Gabe drawls in response. He smiles like he means it, but also a little sideways, like he’s not sure. “Doctor gave you the okay?” 

“He said it was healing better than usual, which I told him was probably because I knew you’d yell at me if I moved on it too much so I didn’t,” Tyson tells him, which is maybe TMI but whatever he’s happy. Gabe grins, looking proud. “I can even do some light training now!” 

Gabe’s face does that sideways thing again, and he leans down to pet Duke, who’s nosing at him, probably enthusiastic to go out. Tyson’s still not supposed to go on long walks. “So are you going to be traveling again, then?” 

“In a week or so,” Tyson tells him. He’s excited about that too. It’ll break up the boredom. “I mean, Nate’s company is about like having a dog to keep me company, so I don’t know if I’ll notice the difference.” 

“Hey. Don’t be mean to Duke,” Gabe retorts, but he’s still not looking at Tyson. 

Tyson snorts. “Hey, I’ll tell on Nate to you. I’m the only one allowed to rag on Nate.” 

“I’m the one who can walk his dog. What good are you to him right now?” 

Tyson laughs again, and Gabe grins up at him at that. “I am not going to miss these little chats,” Tyson tells him, hopefully smiling too much to be believable. “You’re the meanest.” 

“Aw, you’ll miss me,” Gabe tells him, standing up again. His face is doing something weird, and he’s a little red, and–well, Tyson’s almost on the road anyway. It’s not like there are bridges to burn. 

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he warns, then limps a little closer. Gabe stays very still, even as Tyson telegraphs his intentions. “But do you want to get a drink sometime?” 

Gabe looks pointedly at the gatorade in Tyson’s hand. Tyson rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

Gabe bites at his lip, but then he looks at Tyson, and nods. “That’d be nice,” he says, and Tyson manages to fist bump and laugh at the same time. 

“Nice,’ he says, rolling his eyes, “I’m so–” then he manages to stumble on his splinted leg, and Gabe’s moving fast, catching him. Tyson, he thinks, really doesn’t have a choice other than to kiss him. 

Gabe seems to agree, with how he kisses back, and then Tyson loses time until Duke’s barking. 

“You shouldn’t be on your leg,” Gabe tells him, which would be a lot more convincing if his hands weren’t on Tyson’s hips and he wasn’t taking a fair amount of Tyson’s weight. 

“You should be doing your job,” Tyson retorts. Gabe chuckles. 

“I’ll go do my job. You sit down. Then–” 

“Then we’ll go for the drink?” Tyson suggests. Gabe nods. 

“Then we’ll go for the drink,” he agrees. 

* * *

Gabe was right. Tyson meeting Zoey definitely proves that his rule was stupid, and that breaking it is going to destroy him in the best way possible. 


	49. Nicke/Ovi: a kiss...as a yes

Sasha hears about it not from Nicke, as he should, but from Andre, who is gossiping with the stablehands as Sasha grooms his own horse and watches his breath curl into the air. It’s an affectation that Sasha knows make the lords and ladies in the castle look askance at him, but it’s served Sasha well in the past–getting to know his horses, the stablehands. Insuring that his horse is always well taken care of. it’s saved his life before, when a recalcitrant lord thought to hobble his horse rather than let him ride in the lists and have to reward him with the purse when Sasha won. 

And it serves him well now. Not ten minutes later, Sasha is shoving his way past the guard–who should know better, by now, and does know enough to step out of the way rather than try to stop Sasha when he’s furious as now–and storming into the chill of Nicke’s room. 

“You choosing?” he demands. “Now?” 

Nicke doesn’t move. Nicke never moves, and it’s one of the things about him Sasha likes the best, that Nicke will nod and stay quiet and make no fusses and stand firm as the stone walls of the castle. 

Now, though, he doesn’t move from his desk, where he’s writing a letter. The candlelight plays over his golden hair, the gold embroidery on his shirt, the pallor of his skin; over the breadth of his shoulders beneath that shirt, and the strength of the hand that holds his quill, writing with a steady hand sure hand. It’s as cold as it always is in Nicke’s chambers, but his shirt’s unlaced at the collar, clearly just done while he’s in his chambers because Nicke is never improper, not outside these walls. Sasha can see the shadow of his chest, the hollow at the nape of his neck. Sasha’s breath catches, just for an instant. Just to see this moment. 

No one else gets this moment. Not all the suitors downstairs, vying for the chance to break the curse on the castle; not all of Nicke’s people, who respect but are always wary of their ice prince. All of those people think Nicke is only the ice of his eyes and his touch, who speak longingly of the day the curse is broken and the ice falls away. All those people know nothing, Sasha thinks, fiercely as he had since he first came to the castle looking for work, thinking that a cursed land would have more use than most for a mercenary, and found the storied ice prince laughing as he sparred with a knight, his face lit up with a smile. All those people know nothing of ice. 

“Nicke,” Sasha says again. “Why now?” 

Nicke sighs, and lifts his head from his letter. He’s not happy about this either, Sasha can tell, though it’s hidden beneath his even stare. 

“What else am I supposed to do? They’re starving,” he says, and gestures out the window, at the snow-covered fields. “We’ve traded for all we can, and the stores have held out, but I haven’t been eighteen for years and everything’s running low.” 

“Found a way for ten years.” 

“But can I for ten years more?” Nicke asks. He leans back in his chair, slumping a little. Sasha’s fingers twitch with the urge to rub at those tight shoulders, but Nicke doesn’t like people touching him. Sasha has yet to discover if it’s a personal preference, or if it came on with the curse and a self-consciousness about the chill of his skin. “And anyway. The suitors won’t wait. We had three fights break out today alone. And some of them are threatening to make me choose.” 

“Who?” Sasha demands, his hand dropping to the sword at his waist and thunder in his voice. “I–” 

Nicke’s eyebrow goes up, cutting Sasha off. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that’ll start happening more and more until a war really does break out. We can’t have that. So I have to choose now.” 

“Choosing won’t make it true love,” Sash points out. His hand is still on his sword. He’ll fight all of the suitors downstairs, all these lords and ladies who think if they wait long enough they’ll make Nicke love them and their kiss will break the curse. “You shouldn’t choose. Not until it will work.” Not for a long time, Sasha thinks fiercely. Not until there’s someone who can make Nicke smile. 

“Maybe it will. No one says I have to be in love before I choose.” Nicke shrugs. “That’s what people say, right? You’ll fall in love with your spouse by sheer proximity.” 

Sasha’s breath hisses out. “That’s not a way to start a marriage,” he tells Nicke, whose lips quirk. For a cursed prince whose only way to break the curse is to fall in true love, Nicke’s remarkably unromantic. “They definitely won’t have incentive to warm you up.” He waggles his eyebrows. 

Nicke snorts, and rolls his eyes. He tips his head back. “I don’t need warmth,” he says to the ceiling. “It’s been ten years.” He slants his head to look at Sasha. “Haven’t you heard, anyway? There’s nothing but ice in me by now. My bed will be a cold one, for whoever comes to it.” 

Sasha snorts this time. Nicke makes a face like an offended cat. “What?” he demands. 

Sasha has seen Nicke sparring with his knights. He’s seen Nicke with small children, with dogs. He’s seen Nicke when one of the suitors challenged his authority, and Sasha had learned how cold ice could burn. He’s seen the warmth in Nicke’s smile and how fast he is to jump to his friends defense. 

“Your bed won’t be cold,” he tells Nicke. “Or, not–metaphorically.” 

Nicke sighs. “You’re the only one who thinks that. I’ve heard the suitors. They’re not optimistic.” He shrugs, unconcerned. 

Sasha is concerned. Whoever Nicke takes to his bed should be–should want to be there. Should know how to look past the physical chill and go to the fires at the heart of him. Should know that picking past the ice is so, so worth it, for the warmth and the sly humor and the loyal heart. 

“I just don’t know how to choose someone without starting a war,” Nicke says with a sigh, and– 

“Choose me.” 

Nicke straightens, and his eyebrows go up. “What?” 

“Choose me,” Sasha says again. It had come from nowhere, but he’s warming to the idea now. Probably because it hadn’t come from nowhere, but from the secrets beating inside him he’d never voiced. “If you have to choose, and don’t want to choose a suitor, then–choose me.” 

Nicke blinks again. “You? You aren’t a lord.” 

“No,” Sasha agrees. “But then they not lose, not really. And–” he swallows. “I understand. How curse works. We friends. If someone comes, and you fall in love–” Sasha will probably do something drastic and violent to that person– “I step aside, all good for you, curse breaks. And I not bother you like suitors do, all talk talk talk.” 

Sasha can see the thoughts ticking behind Nicke’s eyes, flipping through plans, how this would work. “You’d do that?” Nicke asks. He’s leaning forward now. Intrigued. Nicke really doesn’t want to marry one of them. “Why?” 

“Maybe I’m not want to move if you can’t pay anymore,” Sasha jokes. Nicke’s eyes are sharp on him; he knows he’s lying. Sasha doesn’t know how much. “Come on, Nicke. You know we best together. Have to choose someone. Should be me. Best choice.” 

Nicke sighs. “Come here,” he says, and Sasha goes, as always. Nicke stands up to meet him. He’s a few inches shorter than Sasha; Sasha is somehow both always aware of that and often forgets. 

It’s cold, this close to Nicke–noticeably colder, especially in this already chilly room. Sasha’s used to it, and he knows Nicke’s testing him anyway. “Yes?” he asks.

Nicke tilts his head back. Whatever he sees in Sasha’s face, it must satisfy him, because then he’s pushing forward, and his lips brush against Sasha’s, cold as ice. 

For a second, Sasha hopes–but they don’t warm at the touch of Sasha’s lips, and a spit second later, Nicke’s back on his heels, something thoughtful in his gaze. “Yes.” Nicke nods. “Okay. Let’s do this.”  

“It be good,” Sasha says. “Promise. I be best husband. Bring you flowers and lots of ridiculous squires for you to yell at.” 

Nicke smiles like it’s shocked out of him, and it lights him up, and Sasha–he’ll get there, he vows to himself, as he lets himself, just once, reach out, and put his hand on Nicke’s shoulder, so his thumb rubs over the bare, cold skin of his collarbone. Nicke goes very still under his hand. One day, he’ll feel Nicke’s skin warm underneath his. He’s got time, and enough love to carry them both through. 


	50. Sid/Geno: a kiss...because they're running out of time

_(Or: The Parks and Rec AU)_

* * *

It starts like this: “Hi,” says Sid, holding out his hand. “I’m–”

“Sidney Crosby,” the man in front of him says, tall and lanky with a face that shouldn’t be handsome but that Sid cant stop looking at it. He laughs, a little sheepishly, a little like he’s just amused. It’s not the attitude Sid was expecting, for the outsider coming in to review the city’s budget. “Yes, I know. I’m Evgeni Malkin.” 

“Evgeni?” Sid repeats, trying to imitate the sounds. He knows he’s failing, but he wants to try. The more cyncial parts of him says that people tend to forgive him a lot of mistakes if it’s clear he’s trying, but mainly, he wants to get it right. 

But Evgeni makes a face. “Geno, for Americans,” he corrects. “Is easier. So. I hear lots of things about Sidney Crosby, in other departments.” 

Sid snorts. “Probably not good things.” 

“Many good things,” Geno tells him, but he’s laughing again. “Say you very devoted.” 

“Which means I’m annoying,” Sid fills in. He knows what people think. “I get things done, though.” 

“Yes, I hear that too.” Geno nods. 

“Good. So. Budget?” Sid asks. “You’ll see that we run on the narrowest margins we can and still provide the town the best parks and recreation services possible. There’s no waste here for you to cut.” 

Geno’s smile twists a little. “Always something to cut, Sidney Crosby. Otherwise, there’s no reason I have job.” 

Sid catches his eyes, stares him down. His eyes are big and brown. Somehow comforting. Sid’s not going to be sucked in. “Not here.” 

* * *

“You and the new budget guy are spending a lot of time together,” Tanger points out, sticking his head into Sid’s office as soon as Geno leaves, which means he’s probably sick of manning the desk and wants to hide. 

Sid shrugs. “He’s actually got a lot of good ideas, and if we’re going to nail the Harvest Festival, we–” 

“Yes, yes, you must work hard. I’m glad you’ve found someone to humor you so we don’t have to.” 

Sid wrinkles his nose. “Geno’s not humoring me. He wants to do it too.” 

“He definitely wants to do something,” Tanger grins, and Sid throws a pen at him. Tanger dodges it. “Seriously. You’ve found someone who will listen to you talk about the history of grass in Cole Harbor for hours. You need to nail him down.” 

Sid sighs. He’s not denying that Geno is hot and funny and passionate about his interests and that he and Sid work together like they were meant to be. Sid is not generally the sort of person who doesn’t go for what he wants. But, “He’s sort of my boss,” Sid points out. 

Tanger snorts. “Not really. He’s not even permanent here.” 

“Okay, so either he’s my boss or he’s leaving in a few months,” Sid amends. Tanger still looks unimpressed–the sort of impressed that means he’s definitely going to go tattle to Flower as soon as he gets back to his desk. “Either way, waht’s the point?” 

“The point is you get laid,” Tanger tells him, and opens his mouth to say more, but then, 

“Uh, Sid?” Jake calls from the main room. “I think you should come out here.” 

Nothing good has ever come from that tone. Sid gets up. Tanger’s already cracking up by the time Sid gets out of the office, to see that somehow not only is the printer spraying ink everywhere, but somehow Schultzy and Jamie are in a ink fight. 

Sid sighs. “Guys!” He yells, but they’re laughing too much to hear him, and the rest of the office is cheering them on. He strides over to the printer–it’s not the first time this has happened, and if he shoves the tray and pushes the reset button at the right time, it should–

The printer gives a final gasping sputter and sprays the last of its ink all over Sid’s face. Jamie trips over some books Tanger left out and face plants onto the table. 

“Hi, I”m just–Sid?” Geno asks, sticking his head in the door, his eyes widening as he sees the chaos. 

Sid is covered in ink, and Geno is here to see it, and this is not going to really bolster thier whole ‘keeping the parks budget together’ plan. He puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles, sharp and loud. 

It brings Jamie and Schultzy to a stop, their heads drooping even as they grin. “You two,” Sid snaps. “Go wash that off. Then come back here to clean up everything else.” 

“Sorry Sid,” they mutter, but they go, almost pushing past Geno before he leans out of their way. Sid turns to Jake. 

“Save anything that can be saved from the ink. Hopefully it didn’t get on much.” Jake jumps up to start. Sid finishes the circle by turning to Tanger, who’s nearly doubled over laughing. “And you,” he adds, “Can go to IT to replace this printer. This is the fifth time it’s done that this week.” 

Tanger stops laughing at that. “IT?“ he repeats, his handsome face going white. “Come on, Sid. Don’t make me–” 

“Thats what you get for laughing and not supervising.” And for teasing Sid, Sid doesn’t add, though from Tanger’s face he clearly gets it. 

Tanger huffs out a breath. “Fine,” He mutters. “But if I don’t come home tonight, you can explain why to my wife and children.” 

“I’m sure Cat will love the break,” Sid shoots back. Then he takes a breath, and smiles as he looks at Geno. “Sorry. What’s up?” 

Geno looks around, his eyes wide. “I’m just stop by to see if you have time to go over latest stall arrangement for festival, but it seems like you–” 

“It’s all under control.” Sid takes another deep breath, and ignores Tanger’s quiet muttering in French. “Let me change my shirt, and then we can talk about it in my office.” 

“Um. Yes.” Geno pauses, then. “You get it under control very fast.” 

Sid shrugs. “I’ve had practice.” 

“Still. You do very well.” Geno bites at his lip, then adds. “You do most things very well.” 

“Oh.” Sid is not looking at Geno’s lips. He’s not. “Um, thanks. You do a lot of things well too.” 

“I know,” Geno agrees, and smirks at him. “Go get clean shirt on. Salad truck making fuss again.” 

“I don’t know why you’re so–” 

“Salad does not belong in trucks,” Geno informs him, and herds him back into his office so they can discuss. 

* * *

Sid looks out over the Harvest Festival grounds, at the empty aisles of stands. Tomorrow, they’ll be filled. Tomorrow, the festival will stand or fall–well, it’ll stand. He’s sure of it. 

“Why you out here, so late?” 

Sid turns. Geno’s coming up the steps of the grandstand, looking warm and cozy in his cardigan. He doesn’t look surprised to see Sid. “Just making sure everything was finalized,” he says. “I wanted to double check some things.” Geno looks even less surprised about that, just chuckles a little, fond. “What are you doing here?” 

Geno goes a little red, but he shrugs anyway. “I’m want to leave you surprise, so you find in morning when you get here before everyone.” He shakes his head. “Which was stupid plan, now I think. Come here later than you.” 

Sid laughs. “Yeah,” He agrees. “What is it?” 

“No, you not get until tomorrow.” Geno pats at his pocket. 

“Geno!” 

“No, is surprise, for creator of most successful Harvest Festival ever.” Geno’s grinning at Sid, and Sid has to duck his head so Geno doesn’t see the expression he knows is there. “Can’t see early.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” Geno looks like he’s trying to be stern. Sid considers trying to wrestle it out of his pocket anyway, but decides that would probably be undignified. 

Instead, he waits as Geno turns so he’s standing next to Sid, looking out at the Festival too. “It’s weird,” Sid says, when it’s been quiet a while. “That it’s actually going to happen. We’ve been working for it for so long, and it’s–we did it. The whole town did.” 

“Of course you do it. Sidney Crosby, can do anything.” 

Sid shakes his head. “Crosby and Malkin, the two-headed monster,” he corrects, “We can do anything.” 

Geno makes a low sound, and Sid turns to look up at him. He’s half-lit up by the starlight, and Sid–Sid could kiss him now, god, he wants to. Geno’s looking at him like he wants Sid to as well, and Sid knows he’s not hallucinating this thing between them. Sid wants, so much. And Sid’s good at wanting things. Sid wants a lot of things out of life, up to and including Prime Minister, but right now kissing Geno is high up on the list. 

“When are you leaving?” he asks instead, because Sid wants a lot of things but not a broken heart. “After this, you’ve got to go back, right?” 

Geno lets out a breath. He doesn’t move, and somehow he’s still looming over Sid. “Maybe,” he admits, presses his lips together, and goes on. “Actually–Gonch offer me job, today. Say I can stay, be assistant city manager, if I want.” 

Sid’s heart is beating double time. “Yeah?” he asks. “Are you going to take it?” 

“Not sure,” Geno tells him. He’s not looking away from Sid. “Have a whole life, back in Halifax. Would need a good reason, to stay.” 

“Well I can give you a list of a hundred reasons Cole Harbor is the best, right now,” Sid points out. He has the first fifty memorized, but the other fifty are in the notes on his phone. “We have–” 

“Sid,” Geno interrupts. “Would need  _good_ reason.” 

“I think our low crime rates are a good reason,” Sid mutters, and Geno laughs again. “But also–we make a good team, I thought.” 

“I think, too,” Geno agrees. “Best team.” 

“And–you have a life here too. Friends. If you left, who would take your place in the card game?” 

“Think they could find a person.” Geno lifts a hand, like he’s going to touch Sid, but then lets it drop. “Just–think. Let me know.” 

Sid should kiss him. But–he’s had a plan, and Geno was supposed to be leaving, and now he’s not. Sid doesn’t act rashly. He can’t just turn on a dime like this. 

Geno knows that. And Sid guesses that’s why he smiles, and settles in next to Sid to watch the empty aisles of the festival a little longer. 

* * *

Sid comes out of the meeting shell-shocked. 

“What is it?” Flower asks, catching him around the wrist and tugging him away a little. “Who were those people you were talking to? They looked official.” 

“They were,” Sid agrees. The whole day has been such a high, and now–this. “They, um. They want me to run for City Council.” 

“What?” Flower demands, loud enough that everyone turns to look. Tanger, chatting with Brass and Dumo in a way that actually makes Sid a little nervous and like he wants to send someone over to investigate, even raises an eyebrow. Sid shakes his head. He’ll catch him up later. Geno, across the room, also makes a questioning face at Sid. 

God, Geno. Who is either going back to Halifax, or is going to be Sid’s boss, sort of–enough that it’ll not be great for a campaign. Geno, who Sid wants to kiss a lot, right now. All the time. 

“Sid,” Flower hisses. Right. 

“They–yeah. They were impressed by the Harvest Festival. They want me to run.” 

“Sid!” Flower’s grinning, shakes Sid’s wrist where he’s still holding it. “That’s amazing! That’s your dream!” 

“Yeah.” Sid takes a look at Geno, then pulls himself back together. Remembers who is is. “Yeah,” he says again, and–he wants a lot of things, and sitting in that Council Chamber–yeah, he wants that too. He’s going to do it. He’s going to do great things. “Yeah,” he says a third time. “I’m going to run for City Council,” he says, and Flower claps. 

“Yeah you are,” he agrees. “Now, we need champagne–Tanger!” He yells. “Champagne!” 

Sid lets himself be swept into celebration. But a few minutes–or maybe hours, he’s honestly not sure anymore–he finds himself outside of the party, up on the bench by the sunflowers. 

“Hi,” Geno says, dropping into the seat next to him. He toasts him with his glass of champagne. “Congratulations. We did it.” 

“Yeah.” Sid grins. He’s still lit up by that. “We did.” He clinks his glass with Geno’s, then leans back. “Fuck, we did.” 

Geno chuckles, but lets it subside into silence. 

Sid is the one who breaks it again. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About what you said, before the festival. About a reason for you to stay.” 

“Yes?” Geno says. Waiting. Patient. He’s always patient with Sid, in a way no one else is. Patient not like he’s humoring Sid’s whims, but like he understands that Sid’s not going to leave until he’s done, that he’s going to get wrapped up in a project, that Cole Harbor is the best town and that’s just fact. 

Sid turns to him. He looks–hopeful. “I was talking to some people downstairs,” Sid says, instead of facing that hope dead on. “They want me to run for City Council.” 

“Sid!” Geno grins, then grabs Sid, pulls him into a hug. “That’s great! I’m so proud–so happy!” 

“Yeah.” Sid takes a deep breath, of Geno’s cologne. “I–I’ve dreamed of this since I was a kid.” 

“I know,” Geno tells him, which is fair. “You deserve.” 

“Yeah, for sure.” Sid takes one last breath, remembers the feeling of Geno held close to him, then pulls back. “Here’s the thing. I can’t have scandal near my name, if I run. I’m new, untried. And I like guys, which in this town is scandalous all on its own.” Geno’s watching him with dark eyes now, that clever brain ticking along right beside Sid’s, and Sid can see him get it. See his face fall. “A relationship with someone who was even only sort of my boss…that would be a scandal.” 

Geno swallows. Sid watches his Adam’s apple instead of his face. “Yes,” he agrees. “I see.” 

“So you should go back to Halifax,” Sid rushes on. Now that it’s out he has to keep talking. “You should–I can’t give you a good reason to stay here, other than our waffles and our above average rec hockey leagues and all those things. I mean, I want to, but I can’t. I’ve been wanting to run for this for so long, and it’s a start to–everything I’ve always dreamed of, and I can make this town amazing, G, it’ll be so good, and I just–I wish I was the sort of person who could give that up, but I can’t, and–” 

“Shush,” Geno says, and Sid stops talking to glare. 

“What?” 

Geno’s looking at him, even and sure. “You say, can’t give good reason to stay,” he says. “I think, see what Sidney Crosby can do as City Council member–that good reason.” He pauses, then adds. “And you need me. Who else pull you away when you get into fights?” 

“That was once! You get into fights more than me!” Sid protests, but he’s laughing, and Geno’s laughing too. Even though a part of Sid feels like crying, too. “But–really? You’ll stay?” 

“I like it here,” Geno says, patting the bench. “And…” he glances away, suddenly a little shy. “You not run forever. After you win, I not your boss anymore, really.” 

It catches in Sid’s throat, in his heart. That Geno’s going to wait. That Geno’s decided he’s going to win. That Geno’s everything, and Sid’s going to have to not have that, for the greater dream. 

“You know,” He says, slowly. “I haven’t officially said I’m running yet. And you haven’t told Gonch you’ll take the job yet.” 

“No,” Geno agrees, just as slowly. Following Sid along. “I’m tell when I go back downstairs, probably.” 

“That means that technically, right now. We’re sort of…in a gray area.” 

Geno’s whole face lights up, when he gets it. “Yes, very gray,” he agrees. Somehow the champagne isn’t in his hand anymore. Instead, it’s on Sid’s knee. 

Sid could wait for the build up. But– “Just kiss me already,” he demands, but he barely gets the word out before he’s kissing Geno himself, and Geno’s lips are hot and full against him, and Geno kisses like he was starving and Sid’s the first food he’s had for years, like he’s trying to memorize Sid. Sid’s doing the same–he can have this moment, and remember. 

It can’t last forever. Eventually, they separate, and Geno looks at Sid. He’s flushed and his hair is messy and his eyes aren’t sleepy right now. Sid wants to drag him into a closet. He wants to say fuck it to everything and just have Geno. 

Except–Sid can’t actually do that. He doesn’t actually want to. And Geno doesn’t want him to either, because Geno’s smoothing back Sid’s hair, and smiling wryly. “That enough, then,” he says. “Until you win.” 

Sid takes a breath, then he smiles, as Geno’s thumb sweeps across his temple. He can see it all–Cole Harbor and then Halifax and then Ottawa, and Geno at his side for all of it. “Yeah,” he agrees, and dares the future to prove him wrong. “When I win.”


	51. Sid/Geno: a kiss...to pretend

Tell Sid no,” Flower says as soon as Sid opens the door, before Sid even has a chance to say hi to Geno. 

Geno raises his eyebrows, but, “No,” he tells Sid as he comes into his apartment, handing Sid the six-pack of beer that is his perennial contribution to their monthly potluck dinners.

“Thanks,” Sid says to Geno, “It’s just us this month, all the guys are busy, apparently.” Then he turns back to Flower, because he’s wrong. “I didn’t even say I was going to do anything.” 

“You were on your way there,” Flower retorts. 

“I–” 

“Have you told Sid no too?” Tanger asks, wandering into the hallway in his socks. “It is unanimous, if you did.” 

“It is not–” 

“It is!” Cath calls from the living room. 

“I’m not even proposing anything!” Sid repeats, exasperated. “I was just stating an issue.” 

“Is anyone ever going to catch me up?” Geno demands. In the time they’ve been bickering, he’s taken off his boots and his coat and hung it up, and is now standing looking impatient in his warm-looking cardigan. “What is Sid doing now?” 

“What am I doing now?” Sid asks. “Me? Flower is in the room!” 

“And I’m not doing anything,” Flower tells him, smiling beatifically. “I’m enjoying it, too. I never get to yell at you for being stupid.”

“I’m not–” 

“Someone tell me what’s happening,” Geno demands again. He takes the six-pack back from Sid, and pushes past Sid to head to the kitchen. Sid makes a face at Flower, who makes one back, before he follows Geno into the kitchen. 

Geno’s made himself at home in the kitchen, or as at home as he needs to be to know where the bottle opener is and to steal a taste from the sauce simmering on the stove. Sid smacks his hand away, and takes a beer of his own, ignoring Geno’s puppy dog eyes. 

“Come on, sit down, Flower and Vero brought these prosciutto things, they’re great,” Sid tells him. Geno perks up at that, as always. 

Sid barely manages to sit down in the armchair before Flower starts on him again. 

“You can’t do this, Sid,” he says. Sid looks at Vero. 

“Can you please control your husband?” 

“No,” She replies, patting him on the thigh. “Also, you cannot do this.” 

“If no one tell me what Sid doing, I’m going scream,” Geno says, around a mouthful of prosciutto. 

“I’m not doing anything!” 

“He’s going to hire someone to date him so that the people at work like him,” Tanger inserts, smirking. 

Geno freezes, then turns to Sid. “Sid…” he says on a sigh. 

“That’s not what I said!” Sid glares at Tanger. If this was ten years ago, he definitely would be throwing a pillow–or a cracker–at him. But they aren’t in college anymore, and are apparently adults. Though Sid is fairly sure not everyone in this room–cough Flower cough–remembers that. 

“You were going to get there soon,” Vero tells him. She steals a grape from Flower’s plate, then grins at him when he makes an affronted sound. “We’re just getting you there faster.” 

“I honestly never thought of that, because I’m not insane,” Sid points out. “And my first response isn’t to hire someone to have sex with me.” 

“That is true,” Cath agrees, looking at her husband. “Sid’s pretty. He probably wouldn’t have to pay for it. I’m sure he could convince someone to do it just for that ass.” 

“Hmm,” Tanger hums, “I–” 

“Why you need to pay someone for sex?” Geno interrupts. He sounds stern. Sid has never been cowed by Geno being stern. 

“As I was saying before you all started willfully misinterpreting me,” he starts. Tanger snorts very loudly. “I just think work might be easier if I was in a relationship.” 

“Why?” Geno asks. 

Sid shrugs. “They don’t trust me, yet,” he explains. It’s fair–he’s only been there a few weeks, and he knows it caused a stir, bringing in someone from the outside to be director, and someone as comparatively young as him. Sid’s been facing that sort of distrust his whole life–always too young and too good at his job. They’ll get over that once they get some big wins. 

“They trust once you raise them millions of dollars or do big initiative,” Geno says, as on the same page as Sid as always. “Why you worry?” 

“It’s different, this time.” Sid says. “I think I’m not gay enough. Which is why a relationship would help,” he adds, over French-Canadian laughter. 

“Um, think you plenty gay,” Geno says, not bothering not to look like he’s laughing. “What, they want you wear rainbows? Have sex tape?” 

“Don’t,” Sid warns. It’s not not that trivial–he gets it, a little. And anyway, you don’t laugh at people’s feelings, ever. “Their Board of Directors just brought in some guy they don’t know, and they’ve got a healthy non-profit distrust of their Board anyway. They don’t want some straight cis white guy leading a place where the whole mission is inclusion. It makes sense. 

“But you aren’t a straight cis white guy,” Vero points out. “Unless you went back in the closet.” 

“I didn’t, and I’m not quiet about my orientation, but…” Sid waves at himself. “You know how I look.” 

“Sure do,” Geno agrees, leering cheerfully. Sid smacks his knee, the closest part of him. “Hey! Just saying, you look very nice. You know.” 

Sid knows he blushes, but he ignores it. Geno’s never exactly sparing with his compliments, and he’s made it clear for about ten years that he thinks Sid is hot. It’s not new, or anything. 

“I look like a meathead jock,” Sid corrects. He knows that, too. It’s usually something that works for him–people underestimate him at work and like it on Grindr–but it does make certain spaces less immediately welcoming, how non-flamboyant he is. “Which is not a trope they trust. Understandably. So even though they know I’m gay, they don’t, like, feel it. Which is why,” he goes on, with a meaningful look, “I was saying that if I was in a relationship, it would give me more credit. It was these idiots who jumped from there to me hiring someone.” 

Tanger says something in French, too low and fast for Sid to catch, which means it was definitely an insult, given how everyone but Geno smirks. Sid loves the pot lucks when it’s just them, just what he privately thinks of as the original crew–or the ones that haven’t moved away–but at least when all the younger people are here he has some defense against French speakers. And making fun of him–he’ll take the sometimes uncomfortable hero worship for less mockery. 

At least Geno can’t understand them either, and ignores them as easily as Sid. “You could just find boyfriend.” 

Sid snorts. “In all my free time?” he asks. He leaves unsaid what they all know–he’s not an easy boyfriend. Maybe not personally, though some of his previous boyfriends might disagree, especially when he was younger and didn’t really know how to deal with his obsessiveness, but Sid’s busy and he’s generally going to put work first and he’s not rich or romantic enough to make up for that. His friends, who too often have to put up with his single-minded focus and occasional neglect of them for that, understand. 

And also, he doesn’t want to talk about this, like, at all. Ever since Flower’s and Tanger’s weddings, they’ve been not at all subtle about their matchmaking of Sid, because apparently it doesn’t calculate that marrying their high school or college sweetheart is a different deal than post-college dating. 

“Anyway,” Sid adds. “Geno, you went on a second date yesterday, right? How was that?” 

Geno gives him a horrified, betrayed look. Sid smirks and shrugs. He’s willing to play a little dirty to escape the clutches of matchmakers. 

“You did?” Vero demands, like a shark scenting blood. “What was he like? How was it?” 

“What’s his name? How did you meet him?” Flower adds. Geno holds up his hands, and Sid settles in to watch. 

Later, Sid’s clearing the table when Geno wanders in, holding the last remaining beer bottles. “Thanks,” Sid tells him, as he throws them in recycling. 

“No problem,” Geno says, and leans agains the island to watch as Sid rinses the final plates and puts them in the dishwasher. Sid waits. Geno doesn’t usually stick around for clean-up; if he’s still here he wants to talk something over with Sid. And sometimes he needs a little bit to get there–either because he’s finding the words in English, though his English is much better now than it was at the beginning, and sometimes just because Geno has a lot of emotions and figuring out the words for them sometimes takes him a while. 

Sid finishes loading the dishwasher, then turns to lean against the sink, watching Geno back. Geno looks as good as he always does, all long legs and rangy body and that ineffable charm that makes objectively goofy features attractive. Sid’s never really been clear why he’s still single, honestly; Geno’s a catch. And maybe being a grad student isn’t the world’s most lucrative or interesting job, but he hasn’t really had a boyfriend since graduation, and working at Google is definitely both. 

“You really think it help?” Geno asks, suddenly. Sid blinks. “To have boyfriend. You really think would help you get settle, do better?” 

Sid shrugs. “Yeah? I mean, it’ll happen eventually anyway. It’s just bad timing, because we have a big event coming up and I need all hands on deck, but–”

“So it help,” Geno interrupts him. He’s still watching Sid, something thoughtful and searching in his deepset eyes. 

It’s a look Sid’s familiar with. “Geno, what are you going to do?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Geno–” 

“Don’t worry, Sid.” Sid is definitely going to worry. Geno with that look on his face is the sort of Geno who, back in college, ended up leading the whole team into the penalty box in the one game Sid missed. “I take care.” 

“Do not hire me a hooker.” Geno smiles, pats Sid on the head, then heads to the hallway. 

“Evgeni Malkin!” Sid follows him down the hallway. “Do not get me a hooker. Do not work with Flower and Tanger to get me a hooker.” 

“You think I’m do that?” Geno asks, with his most innocent face. Sid is absolutely not fooled. 

“Yes,” He says. “But don’t. It’s fine. I’ll make it work.” 

“Yes, you always do,” Geno agrees. There’s an odd note in his voice. “See you soon, Sid.” 

“See you.” Sid hovers as he gets his boots on, then his jacket. Then he stands up and tugs Sid in for a quick hug, which Sid returns, used to it by now. 

Then Geno goes. Sid closes the door behind him, goes to the kitchen table, and opens up his computer. He has more work to do before he goes to bed. 

* * *

Sid’s office phone rings, and Sid jumps and accidentally types in an extra g–it’s still a different enough tone from what Sid’s used to that he’s surprised by it every time. 

He glances at the caller id–the front desk–and then picks it up. “Sidney Crosby.” 

“Hi, Sidney,” Sydney, the receptionist, says. Her voice is still tightly polite. “There’s an Evgeni Malkin, here to see you?” 

“Geno’s here?” Sid pulls up his calendar, but he doesn’t have anything there; there’s no texts on his personal phone, either. 

“If Geno is a tall Russian man, then yes,” she replies. It’s at least a hint of snark–Sid will take it. 

“Oh. Um. Okay, I’ll be right out,” Sid tells her, then hangs up. If he cranes his neck from here, he can see the front desk through the glass walls of his office–and sure enough, there’s a hint of a brightly patterned jacket that Sid has been subjected to looking at plenty of times. He can also see the other people in the office, most of them on their computers but a few with the sort of tension that means that they’re eavesdropping. 

Sid goes to the front desk. Geno’s leaning over it, chatting with Sydney, who looks, inevitably, charmed. 

But he looks up when he sees Sid, and grins. “Sid!” 

“Hey, G.” Sid pauses. “I didn’t forget something, did I?” 

“No, no. I surprise.” Geno holds up a takeout bag. “Think I bring you lunch.” 

“Oh. Thanks?” That’s not really something they do, and Geno is definitely up to something, but Sid’s also not going to turn down a free lunch. Geno works at Google, he can afford that shit. “Um, my office is over here, come on.” 

“I come. Nice to meet, Sydney,” Geno tells Sydney, who smiles at him. 

“What are you doing here, really?” Sid asks, as he walks Geno back to his office. 

Geno’s innocent look is unconvincing. “Can’t just stop in, be nice?” 

“No.” 

Geno snorts. He’s of course loud; much more of the office is looking at Sid now, over the top of their computers. Sid is pretty sure at least some of the typing is them sending slack messages about him. 

“Fine, maybe I’m have ulterior motive,” he admits, as they get to the door of Sid’s office. He pauses in front of it, and Sid can see him look around the office, clock the people watching. 

Then his hand is on the back of Sid’s head, tilting it up, and Sid’s too surprised to react when Geno leans down to kiss him, chaste but lingering. 

Geno’s smiling when he pulls back. “I’m miss, little bit,” he says, sheepish. Probably because he can see the murder in Sid’s eyes. Or how the sound of typing around them has definitely picked up. 

Sid looks at him another moment–then he pushes the door open. “Come in,” he says. It’s an order, and Geno doesn’t push it. 

Sid shuts the door, then crosses his arms and leans back against his desk. It’s not perfect–the glass is soundproofed to a degree, but it’s not perfect, and everyone can see them anyway, so he can’t yell properly. But at least he can say what he wants. 

“What the hell was that?” he snaps. “G–” 

Geno crosses his arms back. “That is solution,” he retorts. “You need boyfriend. You not want to hire boyfriend, don’t have time to find one. So, I find solution.” 

Sid blinks. Thinks about his words, very carefully. “If this is you asking me out, G, I’m very flattered, but I don’t–” 

“No! No, is not–of course not. Not want to actually date you.” Sid’s probably offended by how fast Geno answered that and how horrified he sounds. “Just, pretend. So you get credibility with co-workers.” 

“And what do you get?” 

Geno shrugs. “Not a big deal for me. You can buy me beer.” 

“I’m not going to ask you to do this,” Sid tells him. Then, “Actually, no, I’m not even considering this. There’s no way it’d work. We’d have to pretend to be dating–I have events and things you’d have to come to.” 

“So I come. Eat fancy food, tell everyone how great foundation is. Can do.” 

“And what if someone ran across you on Tinder?” 

“Then we say I not deactivate by accident, or we open. We figure out.” 

Sid looks at Geno. That answer was fast too–fast enough that Geno had thought about it before. “Geno, why are you doing this?” 

Geno shrugs, and looks down at his hands. “Because–Foundation’s work important. I’m know that–it help me, when I come to America. And I’m so excited when you get this job, because I know you do great things with it, help so many people.” He looks up, and it’s the way he always looks at Sid–like he believes in him. Like there’s no question he wouldn’t believe in him. “I want make sure you can.” 

Sid opens his mouth. Closes it. “G, you don’t have to–” 

“Know I don’t. I want to. Want to help.” Geno glares back at him. It’s still an open question, who between them is more stubborn. “And what you do now? Say random person just kiss you?” 

So that was him cornering Sid. Sid should have known. “I’d say that that’s how you say hello, because you’re insane,” Sid answers. Geno makes a face. “Flower or Tanger didn’t put you up to this?” 

“No, they not know. We not have to tell them.” Geno’s still looking at Sid, steady and sure. “This all me. You want to do?” 

Sid–it’ll help, he justifies. It’ll help. And Geno really won’t have to do much, and he’ll pay him in so much beer, and–”We don’t ever tell Flower,” he says. Geno grins. “And this doesn’t mean you get to do your insane plans whenever you want, you or him.” 

“Okay, Sid.” He pats Sid’s thigh, looking very smug now that he’s gotten his way. “Now, we eat lunch?” 

Sid sighs. This is definitely opening a Pandora’s box. “Yes,” he agrees. He can feel a lot of eyes on him. “Let’s eat lunch.” 

They eat lunch, and then Geno leaves, but not before he kisses Sid again, a little less chaste this time. It’s a good kiss–Sid would expect nothing less, he’s heard the reviews from some of Geno’s exes and hook-ups–and Geno’s eyes gleam when he pulls away, like he got away with something. Sid rolls his eyes, but shoos him out of the office with a, “Go away, I’ve got work to do.” 

“Fine. See you tonight?” he asks. Sid raises his eyebrows–they hadn’t had any plans tonight that he knew of, and generally Thursdays are Geno’s nights where he goes out with his Russian friends and has a little taste of home–but Geno gives him a meaningful look, so he nods anyway. 

“Yeah, tonight. Bye. Babe,” he adds, because he feels like he should. Then he makes a little face, because that sounded wrong. 

Geno is definitely laughing at him, but he leaves with a cheerful wave to Sydney. 

Sid turns to go back into his office–then thinks better of it. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it. 

“Hey, Sydney,” he says, wandering over to her desk. “Sorry, I should have said earlier–but if Geno comes by, you can just always send him over unless I’m in a meeting.” 

“Okay, I’ll make a note of it.” Sid can see her physically struggling not to ask for gossip. He waits, and sure enough. “So, that was your…” 

In for a penny. “Boyfriend,” Sid confirms. 

“He’s cute,” she observes. “He was singing your praises over here.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he does that,” he agrees. “Feel free to tell him to shut up, he needs that sometimes.” Sydney smiles at him, and Sid knows that he’s smiling too. “Anyway, thanks.”

“No problem,” She says. Her voice is definitely warmer. 

* * *

It annoys Sid to no end, but the thing is–it works. 

It’s still slow, but his co-workers definitely are more comfortable with him, as he peppers conversations with casual references to his boyfriend. It’s not much–Sid’s not a sharer by nature, and any more than that would be out of character–but he drops in stories about Geno, that they’ve seen each other. Little things, like he’s noticed Flower and Tanger do with their wives. 

It’s easy, anyway. He and Geno have known each other for years, even did live together for a brief summer that mostly worked, and they see each other plenty as friends. The stories he has of Geno could be adapted. He has to make up a little, on the edges–how they got together (right after graduation), a few things about like, anniversaries and such–but even that’s easy. Sid knows how Geno acts, in a relationship–the big, ridiculous romantic gestures and the quiet, abiding loyalty. He can imagine how that would fit with him. 

And Geno himself helps too–he’s started stopping by for lunch sometimes, and of course he charms everyone in the office. And, Sid knows, both because he can see it on them and because he knows how this works, they like to see how SId is with Geno. Sid, as Geno has informed him, can tend to be too serious, too intense; apparently having his boyfriend come in and try to bully him around and make Sid roll his eyes a lot humanizes him. 

“It’s okay, they figure out you big dork soon,” Geno tells him over lunch one day, when Sid tells him this. Sid rolls his eyes, but lets Geno pat him on the head and grin at him. Sid finds himself smiling back. It’s nice, spending this much time with Geno again. They haven’t hung out this constantly since college, probably, when they were always in and out of each other’s lives. It’s not that Sid ever forgot how much of a constant Geno was to him, how much he steadies him and pushes him, how funny he is, but having it all the time is…nice. 

And so is work–they’re coming together, Sid can feel it, how they’re uniting. The big fundraiser–a combination of science fair and art show for the kids, and a bit of a gala for the adults–is going to be great. Sid can feel it in his bones, and also in the work that’s happening. This is what he took this job for. 

* * *

Geno comes to the gala with Sid. He meets him there, because Flower and Vero had been sniffing around Sid’s apartment before he left–Sid suspects they can smell the fact that he’s in some sort of relationship, even if it’s fake–and they still haven’t told Flower or anyone else of their old college crew what they’re doing. At the potlucks, it’s still just them, and no one’s noticed. Apparently. 

But at the gala, it’s the work-them, the pretend them, so Geno finds Sid about half an hour in. Sid might be annoyed at him being late, but it’s Geno so he expected that, and anyway, Sid’s busy. 

Busy enough that he doesn’t notice Geno’s there until a hand lands on his shoulder, and Sid almost jumps out of his skin. 

“Just me,” Geno announces, laughing openly as the two people Sid was giving instructions to pretend not to laugh. “Not mean to scare.” 

“Yes you did,” Sid retorts, then, “Hi.” 

“Hi.” Geno smiles at him. He looks good–Geno’s always cleaned up well. And his eyes are warm as he clearly eyes Sid up back. “Look nice.” 

“Thanks.” Sid resists the urge, long out-grown, to shove his hands in his pockets. “Um, you too.” 

“I know,” Geno agrees easily, which makes Sid snort and nudge him with his shoulder. “Need help?” 

“Not right now, I think we’ve got it. You can go get a drink, I’ll find you–” 

“Take him with you,” Sam interrupts. “Please. We’ve got this, Sid. Go see your success.” 

“But–” 

“No, you hear,” Geno tells him, the hand that was on his shoulder sliding around his waist–an easy, proprietary motion. “Come on, we go see projects, talk people into giving money.” 

“Yeah, Sid. Go away.” Lisa adds, and Sid makes a face, but it’s good, really. That they’re comfortable enough to joke with him. 

“But text–” 

“We’ll keep you updated,” Sam assures him, and Sid lets Geno lead him away. 

It is fun, to see the kid’s projects. More, it’s rewarding, and Sid clocks the different donors wandering around. “G,” he mutters, “We have to go–” 

“Yes, I see,” Geno agrees. “Come, you smile, I be very charming, we get lots of money.” 

“Hey, I can be charming!” 

“Okay, Sid,” Geno agrees, clearly humoring him. “Let’s go.” 

They go. Geno is, as promised, very charming. Sid does smile, but he also talks plenty, which is, in fact, his job. 

“Is good? You satisfy?” Geno asks, after a few hours. Sid’s dragged him away for a second to breathe. “Get lots of donations.” 

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. He smiles as he looks out at the fundraiser. Then, “Thanks,” he says, not looking at Geno. “For–all this. It was ridiculous and risky, but it helped pull this off.” 

Geno nudges at his shoulder, so Sid has to look up at him. Geno’s beaming down at him, the small fond smile that he usually gives Sid bright on his face. It’s the same look he’s given Sid for years. “You and me, best team,” he says,  Always.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Sid’s known that for years. “But still, thanks.” 

Geno’s smiling at him. Then he’s–then something changes, for a fraction of a second, something Sid can’t quite catch. 

“G?” Sid asks. 

Geno shakes his head. “You know I’m always help, Sid. Whatever you need.” 

Sid does know that. Sid’s always known that. But it’s different here, with Geno so close to him, with him smiling that way that’s not the same. 

Sid’s not stupid. He knows himself, even if everyone always accuses him of being emotionally immature. He knows what the flip in his stomach means, even if he’s never felt it in this context before. With Geno. With  _Geno_ , of all people. 

But… “Yeah,” Sid says, and looks away again. He can’t–this is not what this was for. Not what creating a whole relationship between them, of conjuring everything he’d maybe want out of a relationship out of thin air, with Geno there to be funny and ridiculous and attractive to top it off. 

He’ll have to cut off the relationship, maybe. Tell Geno it’s over. If only to nip this thing in the bud, before it becomes more. 

“Okay?” Geno asks, and nudges Sid. Sid looks up at him again–at his smile, at his concern, at everything about him. His stomach twinges again. 

No, Sid’s not going to cut this off, he realizes. It’s stupid and reckless and maybe this is all Geno’s fault, because that’s not him, but–he’s going to take this as long as he can have it. 

“Yeah,” Sid says, smiling helplessly back at Geno. Geno is looking at him like he knows he’s lying. “I’m good.” 


	52. Sid/Geno: 5 Headcanons, modern mythology AU

 It becomes clear early that Sid is gods-chosen. It’s not just his skill on the ice, it’s the way it encompasses him. The way he can see things no one else can. It doesn’t mean he can’t play; it’s like the throw of the dice of genetics–an advantage no one chose, and no one controls for. He’s not the only one, anyway. There are always gods-chosen, in every walk of life. They are always great. 

* * *

There are things Sid doesn’t tell anyone. The way he sometimes he sets foot on the ice and  _knows_  how it will go. The things he can see no one else can. The way he dreams, of ice and iron and a presence that is infinitely large and too other to be kind but that likes him, in its way. Of blood, and war, and other lives where the battles he fights for his god are real, where he stands alone against the dark. 

He does tell people, because they ask, about how he can  _know_  when someone’s important. When the hand of his god, or fate, or something, has landed on him. He knows when he picks up a stick. He knows when he’s drafted. And he knows, when Mario tells him about Evgeni Malkin’s situation, that this matters. “He’ll get here,” Sid tells Mario, calm and sure. Mario doesn’t ask. Like he doesn’t ask when Evgeni makes it to Pittsburgh at last, and Sid greets him with a smile and without surprise. This is important, Sid knows. This boy, standing there exhausted, gone through his trials. 

The hand of his god is on him, and Sid smiles at Evgeni, holds out his hand. “Welcome,” he says, and feels fate close around them. 

* * *

Geno is not gods-chosen, and he has spent much of his life bitter about it. Or, not bitter–envious. Geno is always good, always great, and never noticed as the best; he can fight all he wants, work all he wants, and he will never get the notice of the gods. They know all, after all; if Geno wasn’t chosen in the womb, he won’t be now, and so he’ll never be great. 

It makes him wary, at first, of Sid. Everyone knows that the hand of the gods is heavy on Sid, heavier than anyone else in their generation; his hockey is gorgeous, the best Geno’s ever seen. What would it be, part of him can’t help but ask though, if the gods had never chosen? Would he still be as good? Or is this all the favor of the gods, which Geno was never given? 

But then–then, slowly, it’s just Sid. Sid who is awkward and earnest and works so hard, despite being gods-chosen. Who carries the weight of the hand of his god with him wherever he goes, and makes it look easy. Who fits next to Geno on the ice, and when they score, Geno doesn’t think of gods or their gifts, just joy and the two of them. 

* * *

“What it like?” Geno asks once, on a plane high above the middle of the continent, everyone else asleep. Geno had been too, until he woke from turbulence to find Sid awake, staring unseeing at the seat in front of him. Geno put his hand on Sid’s knee, to draw him out of it; Sid started, and looked at him like he was coming back from somewhere very far away. 

“What?” 

“The gods,” Geno clarifies. No one talks about it. They all know, and they’re all fiercely proud of their captain, but no one asks. 

Sid shakes his head. “I can’t…there aren’t words, to explain.” It sounds lonely. 

The plane is very quiet. “I’m always want. To be chosen,” Geno confesses. “Think…it make me special.” 

Sid blinks, and looks at Geno in confusion. “You are special,” he says, like it’s obvious.  

Geno has to smile at that, and feels something turn over in his stomach, in his heart–something he’s been trying to ignore for years. “Not the same.” 

“No,” Sid agrees. “It’s better. You earned everything you have. I…” he shakes his head, and that faraway look is back. “It’s been chosen for me.” 

“You earn too,” Geno retorts, as sure as Sid. “Not because of gods. Because of you.” 

Sid smiles, slow and bright, and there’s that thing in Geno’s heart again. “Thanks,” he says, and then his hand is resting on Geno’s hand on Sid’s knee.

* * *

There are stories about the gods-chosen. It’s not a blessing. The gods-chosen have great gifts, but no gift comes without a price. 

And for those they love…sometimes their price can be higher. 

* * *

Sid dreams, of ice and steel and blood, and the glinting silver of the Cup, and he’s raising it and so is Geno and they’re grinning at each other and then Geno’s melting away, dissolving into nothingness, and Sid grabs at him but there’s nothing there, no one left to hold, and Sid’s alone except for the presence of his god. What can you do alone? he’s asked, and Sid wants to scream, because that’s never mattered. 

He wakes, tears on his cheeks, and scrambles for his phone. Geno doesn’t pick up; he calls again. “What?” Geno snaps, when he finally answers. “Is three in the morning, Sid.” 

“Be careful,” Sid pants. Orders. Fate is building around him, and it hurts to touch. “Don’t–you’re okay?” 

“Yes, am fine. Less now I’m awake. What’s wrong?” Geno asks, softer now that it’s clear Sid’s really worked up. 

Sid forces himself to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he says, and hangs up before Geno can ask what for. It’s not Geno’s fault Sid fell in love. 

* * *

Sid goes down, and stay down. Geno doesn’t understand. What use is Sid’s god–what use is any god–if this can happen? If Sid’s head betrays him like this? All of Sid’s dire warnings, the way he’s been watching Geno–what use is any of it? 

It doesn’t matter. The gods don’t listen to Geno. Geno can just watch Sid’s pale face and the way he curls into himself in his dark, empty house, all alone, unable to handle anything for long. Can only try to be there, as the months stretch on, as the rumblings start about Sid losing the favor of his god, of them replacing him, until–

“You’ll be a great captain,” Sid says, one day when Geno’s over, trying to cheer him up, “It should be you.” He’s serious, and when he looks at Geno he seems to mean it, and it’s so wrong, so not Sid, that Geno breaks. 

“No,” he says, once, and gets up. The gods have never listened to him. Not like they listen to Sid. But Geno has fought his way to everything he got, and he can fight for this too. Fight for Sid. 

* * *

Geno dreams. He’s on the ice, not a rink just–the ice, in his pads. Sid is there, at the other end of it. He’s in the gym short and t-shirt that Geno last saw him in, looking small and alone. Geno tries to skate towards him, but he can’t move. 

Then there’s something–Geno can’t quite understand. Sid has a stick or maybe a sword, and there’s someone or maybe a ghost or maybe nothing, and they’re fighting, and Geno doesn’t know what’s happening but he can see that Sid’s bleeding. He pushes harder, but he can’t get towards Sid. 

And then there’s something there, infinitely large and unfathomable, watching Sid fight. Amused, Geno thinks. Invested, but amused. Like a fan watching a game. Sid is bleeding, Sid’s drained, and it’s amused. 

Geno tries, and tries again. Let me help, he rages. Let me go. You’re killing him. I can help. No, he thinks, like he did at Sid’s. This isn’t right. Sid doesn’t stand alone. 

And then–impossibly heavy, the presence of a god. Geno’s knees almost buckle. Is this what Sid feels, every day of his life? The weight of the hand of his god? 

What would you give? is asked, and Geno refuses to fall. He straightens. Glares back. Who are you, to give? 

And Geno–he thinks of the rink in Russia and the bathroom in Finland and his skates on the ice and the smug satisfaction of a puck hitting twine and the Calder and the Conn Smythe and everything he’s done without the gods and he thinks of Sid’s sure eyes the first time they met and Sid next to him on the rink and in the locker room and on the plane and at team parties and lifting the cup together and Sid’s laugh and the quiet joy of him at a bar with the team and how he smiles at Geno sometimes, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be, and he thinks of Sid bleeding right now and the only thing he knows is that he needs to help. That Sid shouldn’t be alone. That he loves Sid, and he won’t let him be alone. 

More amusement, then–then Geno is there, and Sid blinks at him, confused, the fight frozen. Geno? he asks, reaching out, and Geno touches the blood on his skin, wipes it away. 

You’re not alone, Geno tells him, the weight still on him. You’re never alone. 

You’ll get hurt. This hurts. It’ll hurt you. 

Then it hurts. Geno’s thumb runs over Sid’s lips. Worth it. 

Sid looks unconvinced, even in this nothing-place, and here it’s as easy as leaning down to kiss him before taking his place beside him in the fight. 

* * *

Sid drives to Geno’s. He doesn’t think about it, about what it might do to his head. His head is better. It will be better. He needs to be there. 

Geno lets him in. He’s pale, and Sid’s hands are on him before the door is closed, trying to make sure he’s whole. “What’s that?” Geno asks. “That–real?” 

“It’s what I couldn’t explain,” Sid tells him, “Or part of it, but Geno, you aren’t–”

He’s not. He’s still not, Sid knows, because he can tell the gods-chosen, and that doesn’t change. Geno’s not gods-chosen, and he was there, in Sid’s dreams, fighting against the monsters. That’s never happened. Sid doesn’t know how. 

“That what it like, all the time?” Geno catches Sid’s hand, pulls it to his chest. “You alone there, always?” 

“Yeah. But–you’re okay? Really?” There’s always a price, and Sid won’t let Geno pay it. 

“Feel fine, Sid.” Geno grabs at Sid’s other hand. The way he’s looking at Sid is as heavy in its way as the presence of the god, but totally different too. Like he’d looked at Sid in the other world, when he’d melted out of nothing. “Sid…” 

“It’ll hurt,” Sid warns. He can feel fate building. He’ll fight it, though. For Geno. “You know what happens, to those close to people like me.” 

Geno tugs. Sid does’t move. Geno sighs, and steps closer. “Then it hurts. Already hurting you.” 

“You shouldn’t have been able to be there.” Sid looks at Geno, mostly in awe. “How did you–”

“I’m special,” Geno tells him, smug, and leans down to kiss him, and there’s no fate, no hand of the gods. Just Geno, and Sid, and their very human hearts. 


	53. Tyson/Gabe: law school AU

The one about rival popular clique leaders Tyson and Gabe–not high school, because that’s too young, but maybe law school, it’s basically just grown up high school anyway. So on the one hand, you have Gabe, who is competent and gorgeous and charming and intense and a natural leader and all those things. And on the other, you have Tyson, who is cute and funny and charismatic and apparently can make everyone fall in love with him by like, smiling. So of course the two of them gather cliques around them–not like, Mean Girls cliques, but people who hang out with them. 

And then somehow, a rivalry starts. Probably because of some stupid challenge that one of them gives that the other takes and then escalates, or maybe it’s like, a debate in class that escalates, but either way, it definitely escalates. There’s sniping in class and glaring at each other across the dining hall and everyone’s confused because like, usually when people in law school disagree this much it’s about politics or maybe someone being a gunner in class not like, this personal vendetta? Except this is definitely personal. 

_There’s_ , 

“Wow,” says Gabe in class after Tyson’s answered a cold call, not even raising his hand, “have you even read the Constitution recently?” 

“Yes! And anyway, read the Constitution?” Tyson retorts, accompanied by his cliques’ approving nods and Gabe’s cliques’ sneers, “Who are you, Scalia?”

 And the rest of the class sighs and rolls their eye as the professor tries to get them back on track. 

_And_ , 

Tyson signs up for 1L moot court so Gabe immediately does too and of course they both make it to the finals so there’s, 

“No, we’re mooting me more.” 

“Tys, it’s almost midnight, can we go home?” 

“No, have you seen Landesnerd up there? I’m going to beat him. Come on, let’s go again.” 

_And_ ,

Gabe’s on law review and Tyson tells him it’s stupid and pointless, and Tyson’s in a legal aid clinic and Gabe tells him he’s fighting a losing battle, and they start arguing in the middle of the courtyard as Nate and Mikko (their respective second in commands in their cliques) manage to glare apologetically at each other because they recognize their friends’ ridiculousness but are also ride or die. 

And  _really_ , the thing is, it probably boils down to a few simple facts: Gabe is gorgeous and smart and everything comes easily to him and he laughed at Tyson when he flubbed his first cold call in Civil Procedure and ever since then Tyson’s been itching to prove himself to his smug gorgeous face. And Tyson is hot and clever and people love him without him trying at all and Gabe can’t figure out why he’s always putting his foot in his mouth around Tyson and resents him for it.

Because the thing is,  _there’s also,_

Gabe stealing glances at Tyson as he walks a client back through the law school, leaning in to smile at the old woman, clearly putting her at ease, 

_and_

Tyson nodding along to a point Gabe makes in class, quickly stopping as soon as Gabe looks at him, 

_and_ , 

Both of them starting in on the FedSoc gunner in class who’s trying to argue like, if you read the original text of the Constitution it’s clear that the NAACP doesn’t have the standing to bring a claim and it shouldn’t get to court,

_and,_

Tyson shaking Gabe awake in the library at 2 am. “Come on,” he says, “Time to go home.” 

Gabe blinks. Tyson’s in jeans and a sweatshirt and a backwards snapback and he looks flushed and messy and gorgeous and he’s talking to Gabe not insulting him and Gabe’s confused and still not quite awake. “What?” 

“Come on, it’s no fun if you’re sleeping through your exams.” Tyson tugs. “Go home, Gabe.” 

“Okay,” Gabe says, too tired and dazed to argue or to do anything other than smile at Tyson, big and bright. 

_and,_

“Congratulations,” Gabe says, stopping by Tyson’s seat on his way to his own. Tyson narrows his eyes, waits for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. 

“On what?” 

“On your case. I read about it in the news. That’s really great,” Gabe says, and he sounds sincere, and Tyson doesn’t know how to deal with this. What are they fighting over? 

“Um, thanks?” he says instead, and smiles back. Gabe nods, then keeps going. Tyson looks over at Nate and Josty, who are sitting next to and below him, respectively. “That happened, right?” he whispers, and they both nod back, equally confused. 

_and eventually,_

“We’re not done,” Tyson announces, and sits down at the seat across the dining hall table from Gabe. Mikko, who had been about to put his stuff down, blinks, then shrugs, and sits down a seat to the side. “That’s a bullshit reading of  _Yates_  and you know it.” 

Gabe grins and shrugs. “It’s in the text.” 

“A fish is not a record, don’t even give me that,” Tyson tells him, “Ejusdem generis can mean anything. Can I have a fry?” 

Gabe pushes his plate over. “It’s a canon. I’m just applying the pyramid of canons.” 

“And I’m applying the canon of Tyson, and it’s bullshit,” Tyson retorts, and Gabe snorts and Tyson grins back at him, flushed and pleased. 

_and finally there’s_ , 

“Is this a joke?” Tyson demands, and throws a piece of paper onto the library table in front of Gabe. He’s loud enough that everyone looks and glares; Gabe leans back and smirks, though maybe he’s going red too. 

“Nope.” 

Tyson blinks. “So you’re seriously asking me to Law Prom.” 

The room suddenly goes a lot quieter. Gabe straightens, shakes out his hair. “Yep.” 

Tyson blinks again. “And you did it with a ‘Will you go to law prom with me, check yes or no’ note? Are you twelve?” 

“You didn’t check a box,” Gabe points out instead of replying. Someone is definitely filming this already. Someone else has gone to get a librarian to get them to shut up. 

Tyson huffs out a breath, scowls, then grabs Gabe’s highlighter and checks off a box and shoves the paper back at Gabe. “I’m still going to kick your ass in moot court this semester,” he says, and Gabe can’t stop smiling, looking down at that checked off yes box. 

“You’re welcome to try.” 


	54. Tyson/Gabe: one night stand and falling pregnant au

It takes Tyson the better part of an hour of staring at her phone before she hits send on the message. 

As soon as she does, she throws her phone halfway across the room–luckily onto a couch–and gets up to get herself some water. She actually cannot handle sitting on a couch right now. She’s never been much good at sitting still, period, and retiring hasn’t changed that, it’s just taken away her main way of getting out her energy, so. Pacing it is. 

Her phone buzzes after only one good pace, though, because that’s her life. And also, her captain–ex-captain? She’s not sure how that goes. He’s always her captain in her heart, etc etc. 

She looks at the phone immediately, though, because she has no impulse control. 

_Sure, I’m free now_ , Gabe’s texted in response to her question if he’s up to facetime, punctuation perfect because he is still a nerd. Tyson glances at the time–she guesses the time zones worked out. Which is totally her excuse if anyone asks why it took her this long to text, thank you very much Nate.  _What’s up?_

Tyson takes a breath. She can feel her chest rise and fall, and her stomach. She puts a hand on it, because that’s what she’s seen people do, but also because it’s like, a thing she needs to do. 

_I’ll call you_ , she texts, then does that. 

Gabe answers immediately, peering into the camera because he is an old man who doesn’t know how to make eye contact over videochat. Tyson grins despite herself. Then he settles back, figures it out, and–well, it’s the first time she’s really seen Gabe since the season’s over. Since he left her house after their one last hurrah retirement party fuck, when they got booted out of playoffs at the start of summer. 

“You know, it’s really unfair how men age,” she says, before saying hello because greetings are for people who weren’t teammates for years. “Like, you’re allowed to get old and still have people want you because of like, money and shit, and you still look like–that.” 

She huffs out a breath. 

Gabe grins, shakes back his hair–if it’s going grey at all she can’t tell in the blonde. He really is still ridiculous even in his mid-30s, as hot as he had been the first time Tyson had come into the locker room and physically had to stop herself from dropped her jaw.

She pats her stomach again. It’s too bad, really. 

“Yes, Tyson, it’s good to see you too, my off-season’s been good,” he drawls, though his eyes are flicking over her fast, like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong. Tyson would bet someone a whole lot of money he doesn’t figure it out. “How’s yours been?” 

“Is it an off season if you’re retired?” Tyson asks. Gabe’s smile flickers. 

“Tys, I–”

“It’s fine.” It is. That, well–it sucks, and it’s not like Tyson didn’t want to keep playing forever and ever and ever, but she got in a good run and she’d rather be able to walk on her knees later and, like, she’s dealing with. Probably not healthily, but. She’s dealing. “I am eating so much ice cream, it’s awesome.” 

“I should buy stock in Dairy Queen, with how you’re going to drive up business.” 

“Is that insider trading? I don’t know what insider trading is but I think that’s it,” Tyson retorts, and Gabe laughs, that special incredulous amused laugh that’s just for Tyson. Tyson bites at her lip. He’d–well, she’s heard that laugh in a lot of different situations. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what insider trading is,” Gabe tells her. “What’s up? Why’d you call?” 

Tyson’s thought a lot about what to say here, actually. But apparently what comes out of her mouth is, “Well I’m eating for two, so I deserve the ice cream.” 

Gabe opens his mouth, then he blinks, then his jaw drops, then he leans into the camera like he could reach through it. It actually looks pretty stupid. Tyson takes a bit of comfort in that. 

“Tyson.” Gabe’s got his very calm sort of voice on, the sort of voice that he used when there was a big catastrophe. Tyson puts her hand over her stomach again, more protective this time. “You’re–”

“Ta da!” She uses her other hand for flair. “Yep. Preggo.” 

A lot of emotions go over Gabe’s face very fast. “Is it–but we–” 

Tyson swallows. This part is, yeah. “No,” she says, and she can’t look at Gabe as she does. It’s stupid, it’s not like they were ever anything more than just friends who fucked sometimes–great friends, sometimes even best friends–it’s not like Gabe wanted this, but still–she looks down at her hand over her still-flat stomach. “It’s not–the timing doesn’t work.” 

“Oh.” She can’t read the emotion in Gabe’s voice. When she looks up again, she can’t see it in his face either, all media blank. “Whose is it, then?” 

“Mine,” Tyson snaps. Gabe looks for a second like he’s thinking about rolling his eyes. 

“I know, but–” 

“I don’t know, okay?” Tyson gets up. She needs to be moving. “I just–I’d just retired, okay? I didn’t handle it great. There were a lot of people. Plenty of whom were guys.” 

“Calm down,” Gabe says, and it’s condescending enough that Tyson glares into the screen. 

“Calm down! I’m pregnant and I don’t know who the dad is, you don’t get to tell me to calm down!” 

Gabe’s hand moves like he wants to touch her. “You’re right,” he agrees, and he always sounds reasonable Tyson hates it. “But still, take a breath.” Despite herself, Tyson does. It makes her feel better. “Good. Another.” She does. “Okay.” Gabe straightens. “So, are you…” he pauses then goes on, “keeping it?” 

Tyson looks down again. This is partly why it took her this long to call Gabe, to tell anyone other than her family and Nate. This choice. “Yes,” she says, and she wished she sounded surer. “I…I’ve always wanted kids and its not like I have a whole lot of time left, you know? And it’s not like I don’t have the money for it, I’ve got plenty saved up. And with retiring it sort of feels like, I don’t know, a sign? Like it’s time.” She glances at the phone, expecting judgment. She’d had plenty of judgment–her parents, tsking at her like they didn’t think she could do it alone like this, Nate’s worry. She’s not sure she can take Gabe’s. “You know me, strong independent woman. I don’t need no man, I can do it alone.” 

But there’s no judgment there, other than Gabe’s baseline judginess. Just Gabe’s steady look at her. “You won’t, though.” 

“What?” That’s not judgment, it’s–Tyson doesn’t know what it is. 

“I know you could do it alone, you’ll be a great mom,” Gabe says, because he says shit like that and it still makes Tyson blush. “But you won’t, because I’ll be there.” He pauses for a period, then rushes on, “I mean, and so will Nate, and the rest of the team and like half the league, knowing you–have you told them?” 

“Just Nate, you’re the first otherwise. I didn’t want to hear about EJ’s stories about how it’s just like horses,” Tyson jokes, but she can’t–fuck Gabe and his steadiness and the way he believes in her like that. How’s she supposed to deal with that? 

Gabe laughs. “Expect a lot of Avs onesies. But they better be wearing mine most.” 

“Excuse you, they’ll be wearing 4, I can even get those on sale.” Gabe’s just  _looking_ at her now, smiling a little, and it’s fond and amused and Tyson cannot handle it. “What?” 

Gabe shakes his head. “Do you want me to come stay with you?” he asks, which is definitely not what Tyson was expecting. “We’ve got a few more months of off season.” 

“I–you have like, training. Your whole Tre Kroner crew shit. And your family–”

“I’ve heard you can train in BC too,” Gabe retorts, teasing. “And my family will get it. Do you want me to come?” 

Tyson pauses. She does, of course she does, she always wants Gabe around, and now more than ever–she wants him to laugh at her and with her and to get her ice cream like he always does and to fuck her too, because that’s always good, but mostly to just believe that she can do this. But she can’t just ask that, they aren’t that, she doesn’t want to mess up what’s probably one of his last–

“Yeah, I’m looking at flights now,” Gabe announces, and Tyson makes a face. 

“Maybe I was going to say no.” 

Gabe raises an eyebrow. “Were you?” 

Tyson hesitates. “No,” she admits. She really wasn’t. But she still feels compelled to say, though, “I could do it alone, though. I don’t need you.” 

Gabe’s smile is a little rueful, a little self-deprecating. “Trust me, I know,” he says, and Tyson wishes suddenly, desperately, that they weren’t half a world away, that she could hear him for real and not just over the phone, that she could figure out what that tone means. “But as long as I’m around, you won’t have to.” 


	55. Tyson/Gabe: meeting at a party whilst drunk au

Tyson doesn’t believe in regret. Regret is for people with too much time on their hands, whose lives are filled with the plebeian and the mundane. Tyson is an  _artist_ , he carpes the diem, he lives his life to the fullest, he doesn’t take the time to look back and regret. He should basically be in Moulin Rouge. 

That being said, he is maybe going to regret that last tequila shot. 

“No, see, you don’t get it,” Tyson tells Nate, his solo cup waving in the air. “It’s just a boring class, it’s not even hard.” 

“You want to trade?” Nate asks. He’s slumped on the couch, a beer in his hands that he looks too dispirited to even drink. His latest midterm really took it out of him. “You can be the mech e major, and I’ll go to your classes and draw shit.” 

“But then who will support me when I’m a starving artist?” Tyson asks. He gives Nate his biggest, most pleading eyes. “I need someone to save me from my tuberculosis.” 

Colin, from his other side, snorts and grabs Tyson’s solo cup before it tips over. “I think your dad’s money will do that,” he points out, which is maybe true but like, a low blow. 

“Whatever. You guys are just lame,” Tyson informs them. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“Neither do I,” Colin replies easily. Tyson sticks out his tongue. 

“Just for that, I’m going to go find someone else who will understand my woes,” he announces. 

Nate sighs, like the world has crashed down upon his shoulders. “No, it’s good, I need to hear about someone else’s problems so me failing out of school won’t sound as bad.” 

“You didn’t fail,” Tyson tells him, kicking at his leg. “Come on, get up, we need you moving.” He tugs. Nate sighs again, but at least now he’s upright. He just needs another drink and maybe some karaoke. Tyson’s going to go look into that, as soon as he’s done bitching. “But seriously. How am I supposed to get better as an artist if they don’t give me good models?” 

“I thought you said that Roman was the model,” Colin asks. He seems to get on board with Tyson’s herding them through the party towards where the rest of the drinks are, which is good because Tyson needs one hand for pulling Nate along and one for his solo cup. 

“Yeah, exactly, have you seen him? He’s way too pretty to be a model.” Tyson yells over the noise of the party. A dude they’re passing by turns to him, like he thinks they’re talking about him; Tyson nods to him because hey, no harm in letting him think that.  

“I don’t think that makes sense,” Nate says, listless. “Or maybe I’m not smart enough for it to make sense.” 

“Nah, you’re too sober for Tyson logic,” Colin tells him, patting him on the back. 

“No, it’s real,” Tyson insists. “I mean, yeah, you are too sober, come on finish that and I’ll make you something. But also, it’s real. Beautiful people are boring to sketch, they’re just–beautiful. There’s nothing new about it. You draw one perfect face, you’ve drawn all of them. Like, look at him.” Tyson gestures across the kitchen, to where the most beautiful blonde man he’s ever seen is standing, talking to another large blonde man who seems to be missing some teeth. “He’d be boring to draw. I could draw him in my sleep, probably. There’s nothing interesting there.” 

Maybe he says it too loudly. Maybe it’s one of those lulls in conversations that happen at parties. Maybe it’s just Tyson and his luck. Maybe this is that last tequila shot talking. 

Whatever it is, the beautiful man turns around, and gives Tyson a look that has him half quaking and a lot turned on. “Excuse me?” he demands. Even his voice is hot, what the fuck. 

Tyson, because he can’t not, doubles down. “You’d be boring to draw,” he tells him. “It’s not your fault, it’s just like, the one down side of being hot. I could draw you or I could draw Prince Charming, it’d be the same.” 

“I am not boring,” the guy protests, his face drawing together thunderously. It’s actually a pretty interesting expression. His friend, however, is looking delighted. “I am interesting.” 

“Fine, but your face isn’t. I mean, it’s gorgeous, and I’m an art student I should know, but it’s not interesting. See, this–” Tyson gestures to his face– “This is interesting. Your friend, without the teeth–that’s interesting.” The guy gives his friend a look like he’s betrayed his entire family. The friend is really grinning now. “You’re not.” 

“I’m not?” the guy echoes. “Prove it.” 

“What?” 

“Prove it,” he says, like he’s won. “Prove I’m so easy to draw.” It’s a dare, and he sounds like he doesn’t think Tyson’s going to do it, which just shows how little he knows Tyson. Which maybe makes sense, as he doesn’t know Tyson.

“Fine,” Tyson announces, and gets an incredulous look from the guy, a cackle from his friend, a resigned chuckle from Colin, and another sigh from Nate, who really isn’t as invested in this as Tyson thinks he should be. “Someone get me some paper and a pencil, we’re doing this.” 

“Tyson, you do  _abstract sculpture_ ,” Colin mutters. Tyson ignores him. 

“Fine,” the guy snaps back. “EJ–” 

“Oh I am finding supplies,” the friend says. “Nemo must have them around here somewhere, don’t move.” 

“Should we move?” the guy asks Tyson, all false solicitousness. “I wouldn’t want you to be disad–disadvantaged–” he sluts the word a little– “By bad lighting.” 

“Fuck you, like you have bad lighting,” Tyson throws back. “We’re doing this right here. You, stand–” he pushes the guy back against the counter, where he’s got a decent contraposto going on. The guy goes, lets Tyson pose him, which means Tyson really gets some hands on knowledge of how muscled his arms are. 

“Okay, I’m–wow, you move fast,” EJ says, coming back in holding a notepad and a mechanical pencil aloft like trophies. 

“I’m posing him,” Tyson explains. He looks up–the guy is annoyingly, perfectly tall, of course–to find bright blue eyes looking down at him, still determined and a little hazy with alcohol but with a glint of good humor in them. It’s all very attractive. Tyson doesn’t regret this, exactly, but maybe he should have thought about this for a second. “You good? Not going to cramp up and mess me up?” 

“This is fine,” the guys replies. “If you can handle it.” 

“If I can handle it,” Tyson mutters, and grabs the paper and pencil from EJ. Neither of them are great quality, but whatever, he doesn’t need great quality. “I can handle you.” 

“Sure,” the guy retorts, and grins. It’s a frankly devastating smile. 

“Okay, clear the area,” EJ announces, pushing people away. “Come on, you get over there,” he tells Nate and Colin. Colin rolls his eyes and doesn’t move. Nate lets out a long breath but looks a little more interested in the proceedings as he moves people away, so, at least that’s a win. 

Then Tyson sits down to draw. 

It’s–look, he meant it. Beautiful people are easier to draw, in a lot of ways; they’re beautiful because they’re symmetric and simpler, basically. It’s like, basic aesthetic theory. But also, that’s only true if you don’t put effort into it, because the longer Tyson draws the more he sees, like, the little crinkles at the corners of the guy’s eyes like he smiles a lot, and the cocky set to his shoulders, and the smudge on his hand probably from pen, which means he probably is old school and likes handwritten notes. Tyson likes art because he likes to find that in people, in things; find the inside and make it the outside, and even drunk that’s true. 

So all in all, the drawing’s not bad, even for a rough sketch, is what he’s saying, but he feels oddly shy when he puts down the pencil. Colin and Nate have wandered away a little chatting to EJ about who knows what; they aren’t paying attention anymore. 

“There,” he says. “Done.” 

“Well let me see,” the guy demands. “Come on, I have to judge if I really am that easy to draw.” 

“Whatever, it was about interesting, not boring,” Tyson tells him, but he hands over the notepad, then waits as the guy stares down at it, his mouth gaping a little open. 

Tyson is not capable of waiting for more than thirty seconds, though, so, “So?” he prompts. 

The guy looks up. He doesn’t look so snappish anymore. “You should sign it,” he tells Tyson. “That’s what artists do, right?” 

“What, you aren’t keeping–” 

“Yes I am,” the guy says. “But first, you’re signing it.” He holds out the notepad. Tyson takes it back, looking at little skeptical. It’s not that good. 

“And,” the guy goes on. “You should probably add your number. In case I have any follow up questions.” 

Tyson freezes. Looks up halfway through his signature. 

The guy is still looking at him, but there’s a smile twinkling in his eyes and the corners of his lips. 

“That was really smooth,” Tyson tells him, and adds his phone number. 

The guy laughs, and takes the notepad back, then switches hands so he can hold his right out for Tyson to shake. “Gabe,” he tells Tyson. His hand is warm, and lingers a little. “Maybe I can prove that I really am interesting–” he glances down at the sketch– “Tyson.”  

Tyson grins back. Yeah, he regrets nothing. 


	56. Sid/Geno: exes meeting again after not speaking for years au

It’s not the first time Sid’s been at the Hall of Fame, obviously, but he still pauses outside, tugs at the cuff of his suit. The media’s all in the front, and he’ll go there, soon, but–-he needs a moment, he thinks. Just a moment, before The moment. 

“Sid!” And there the moment goes, in a flurry of Quebecois that engulfs him in a hug before it resolves itself into Flower. “There you are. Sneaking in?” 

“Just taking a second,” Sid retorts. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Taking a second,” Flower shoots back, laughing. The lines on his face have started getting a little deeper with age, but he’s still the same Flower Sid had met, going on twenty years ago now. “Sure, to say what to the cameras?”

“Are we hiding?” A familiar hand on his shoulder, and then he’s getting pulled into another hug, hard and familiar. Sid lets Tanger pull him in, then–-he can’t help it-–mutters, 

“Is he here?” 

Tanger snorts. “Where else would he be?” he asks, and slaps Sid’s back before he pulls away. He has, of course, aged irritatingly well; the grey streaks in his hair make him just seem more distinguished. Flower tugs him into a hug next, as if they don’t live bare kilometers from each other now that they’re back in Quebec. 

“No whispering,” Flower orders. “We’re not too old for me to trick you.” 

“Flower–” Sid starts, as Tanger rolls his eyes. Flower’s smile is worrisomely innocent, though he doesn’t think Flower would actually do anything to mess up today for him. 

Tanger says something to Flower in french, too quick and fast for Sid to catch; Flower laughs and retorts. Sid sighs at both of them-–at these two men who have been with him for so long. These two, and–-

He sees Geno first, Sid thinks. Sees him from across the parking lot, still tall and rangy, though his belly is bigger and he looks balder. He still looks so good in a suit, though. He always did–-or Sid always thought he did. Whether it was them as kids, bright and eager and so sure that the two of them together could sweep the cup every year; older, and thinking they were so subtle and that no one knew how they’d taken up all the space in each other’s worlds; even older and realizing what sneaking around meant, and that they both wanted more and couldn’t have it; even older, and watching Geno with his family, happy and smiling. 

The oldest, the last time–-when they’d walked together off the ice for the last time, all of Pittsburgh cheering at their back, and Geno had been in his suit as he followed Sid home. 

It’s been years since then, years of silence, as they made their lives in two countries. But Geno is still Geno, and Sid will never not know him. 

Then Geno is there, standing in front of him. The last time Sid saw him, he was leaving Sid’s house to go bak to his own, to his wife and son, and Sid had kissed him one last time, hating himself for needing it. He wonders, sometimes, if Geno had told his wife, about that time. He thinks so. Even before, she’d always smiled at Sid like she knew. 

But this time–-this time Geno is smiling at him, big and reckless, like he’d forgotten the last time. “Sid!” he says, and pulls Sid into his own hug, barreling through any awkwardness as always. 

Sid laughs, and hugs him back. When he steps back, he’s grinning too. “You made it,” he says. “I wasn’t sure.” 

Geno rolls his eyes. “You think I’m let you do this without me?” he asks. His accent is thicker than it was, the last years in Pittsburgh. “I’m assist on most goals, you not here without me.” 

“Hey now,” Sid chuckles. Geno doesn’t take it back, his eyes glinting. “How long are you here for?” 

Geno shrugs, which Sid takes to mean that he doesn’t know or much care. Out of the corner of Sid’s eyes, he notices Tanger and Flower step away, as if to give them privacy. “Until kids want me back, or get bored,” he says. “Thought I’m take long time. No reason not to,” he adds, and the bitterness is clear. 

Sid reaches out, pats his arm. “I’m sorry about Anna,” he says, and means it. He’d said it when he’d heard about the divorce too, one of the few texts that he actually sent. She’d made Geno happy, and that was what Sid cared about. Other than that once. 

“Me too.” Geno glares at his hands. “For best, though.” 

“It wasn’t because…” Sid starts-–an old worry, that had nagged at him for years. 

Geno shakes his head. “That, she understand. Not happy, but she always know. Is just-–hard.” 

Sid hums his understanding. “Well. I’m glad to see you,” he says, to turn the conversation. 

Geno manages a smile again. “I’m not sure, when you make Tanger ask.” 

“I didn’t want to pressure you!” Sid protests. There are a lot of years and complicated feelings between them, and he didn’t want to make it a captain thing. 

Geno shakes his head, but his hand is on Sid’s shoulder, big and warm, and his eyes are on Sid’s, also big and warm. “Sid, of course I’m want to come. You deserve. Want to be there for you.” 

“I wanted it to be you too,” Sid tells him. He’d argued for it, too. Had considered refusing the honor until they brought Geno in with him. But he hadn’t been sure Geno would want that, and he didn’t know how to just reach out and ask, after so many years, and Mario had talked him out of it, in the end. But-- “It should be both of us, together.” 

Geno chuckles, and his finger trails against Sid’s jaw-–a motion that, years ago, Sid knew. His head jerks up; Geno is looking at him fondly, like he had so many years ago. Like he’s thinking-–like, as always, he’s on the same page as Sid. 

“This time, I let you go first,” Geno tells him, and Sid laughs too, can’t help it. 

“Are you ready now?” Tanger demands, coming back over, with Flower looking interestedly over his shoulder. “We should go in?” 

Sid looks around him-–at his team, his friends. There will be more of them inside, all the people who got him here, who helped, but–-these ones are his. 

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. He rolls his shoulders back, and ignores his friends’ laughing at him. “Let’s go.” 

“Not a war, Sid,” Flower mutters, but he stays in step with them as they head towards the building. More people are coming in, a lot with media passes. Sid’s gearing up for that, for what he knows is coming, when Geno’s hand brushes his. 

“I’m think maybe, I have time in US, I come by,” Geno whispers, and he looks eager and a little worried and a lot like he always used to, when he bullied his way into Sid’s house, into his bed, into his heart. “You feed me, take me all new places.” 

Sid’s too old for his heart to thump like this, but it does. “Yeah,” he says, as they reach the doors and the rest of the hockey world. “I’d like that.” 


	57. Tyson/Gabe: firefighter AU

“I swear this isn’t what it looks like!” 

“What isn’t it?” the hot firefighter looks at Tyson–who’s in just his towel this time, which, at least it’s summer; Tyson’s gotten to a point in his life where he’s accepted that he’s going to have ridiculous things like this happen to him, so he takes the god where he can. The good not being hot firefighter, who looks just as devastating this time as he has all the other times. “Because it seems like either you’re just that clumsy, or you’ve been manufacturing ways to see me and for me to see you in a towel.” 

“Um.” Tyson shrugs. “I actually am that clumsy, sorry.” He gives his most apologetic smile. “Not that the other doesn’t make sense, you are definitely hot enough for it, it must happen to you all the time, but no, I haven’t actually been trying to burn my house down. I’m not  _that_ desperate.” 

“Oh.” Tyson might be fooling himself, but the firefighter actually looks–-disappointed? It’s hard to tell; the gorgeous is kind of overwhelming. “Well then, be more careful next time.” 

“But then how would I enjoy our little chats?” Tyson asks. “And how would you enjoy me naked?” The firefighter’s jaw twitches. Tyson flushes, but, hey. He said what he said. 

“I’m sure we have security footage,” he says, and Tyson’s gaping while he walks away. Which he just-–does, walking away to the firetruck where he starts ordering people around. 

“His name is Gabe, this is his work schedule for the next week.” Tyson turns-–there’s another big blonde firefighter looming down at him, holding out a piece of paper, grinning a little maniacally. “If you came by to thank him for saving you and so he could shut up about you, we would all appreciate it. A lot.” 

“I–-what?” Tyson asks, but the other firefighter’s following the hot firefighter to the truck. 

Tyson looks at the paper in his hand, then at the truck, where hot firefighter is taking off his helmet and drinking water in a way that quite frankly should be illegal, then at his barely even burned a little house. 

It’s probably a joke-–hot firefighter probably gets guys crushing on him all the time. But in case it isn’t--well, after six different not really emergencies, it’s probably about time Tyson did something nice for the firefighters…


	58. Tyler/Jamie: two miserable people meeting at a wedding au

“Do you love her?”

Jamie blinks, and looks at the seat next to him, which at dinner had sat one of Mark’s college buddies and now is filled with a hot guy. An almost shockingly hot guy, really-–definitely not the sort of guy who comes up to talk to Jamie at weddings, where there are a number of attractive women who he could be dancing with. 

“What?” he asks. Or maybe stammers. 

The guy just smiles, easy. His hair is slicked back but starting to escape into bits of curls. “I just thought I’d ask the blunt question in case it was the right one and you’d needed someone to talk to about it and no one had ever asked you, so you’d never been able to talk about it even though you might’ve wanted to.” 

“No you didn’t,” Jamie replies, before he thinks better of it. “You’re just quoting Love Actually.” 

The guy tips his head back and laughs, loud. It’s quite a sight. Jamie is still confused about why he’s here. 

“Caught,” he admits. The twist of his lips is a little wicked, but there’s something in his eyes that’s not. “It’s a good movie, though. Worth quoting.” 

“Misquoting,” Jamie corrects, because apparently he can’t help it. “It’s ‘Do you love him?’”

The guy’s lips twist a little. “Well, yeah, but this one’s more relevant, eh?” he asks, on a laugh that doesn’t seem entirely real. Jamie’s not going to get into  _that_ with some very hot and very bro-y guy who just appeared next to him, though, 

There’s something about him, though–-about the fact that despite the fact that he looks like the kind of guy who should be cutting it up on the dance floor and hooking up with a bridesmaid, he’s sitting with Jamie–-that makes Jamie cock his head at him. “Are  _you_ in love with her?” he asks. 

The guy laughs. “What?” 

“I mean, I thought–-it’s where your mind went.” 

“Well, she’s my cousin, so…” 

“Oh, right. I mean, i didn’t know, so–-” Jamie stammers, looking down at his hands. Of course he’d do something like this. He’s better than he was maybe five years ago, but then he goes and says something stupid. 

“No reason you should know.” The guys shrugs, but he’s definitely laughing. Jamie knows that he has a tendency to assume people are laughing at him, not with him, but he’s the one who just did something stupid, so he thinks it makes sense here. “Okay then. If neither of us are in love with Mary, why do you look like your dog peed in your bed?” 

“I don’t have a dog,” is all Jamie can think to say. 

The guy snorts. “Well, that was your first mistake. But seriously, bro. You’re young, you’re hot, you’re rocking that suit–-that’s supposed to be wedding gold. Not wedding sit around in a corner looking bummed.” 

Jamie is definitely red now. “I’m-–I mean, I’m not–-I’m not  _bummed_.” 

“You’re definitely something,” the guy smirks at him. It doesn’t exactly compute with his misquoting. Or the way that this feels like a performance-–Jamie spends a lot of time quiet, watching people. it gives him a lot of time to figure out when people are pretending. 

And that’s something to say that isn’t figuring out what the guy meant by that. “Why are you bummed?” he asks. The guy’s eyebrows go up. 

“Bummed? I’m on top of the world, didn’t you know?” He gestures exuberantly. Too exuberantly. 

Oddly, it’s calming. Jamie hates things like this, where he doesn’t really know anyone and feels out of place, too big and too awkward and too quiet, but he knows how to do that–-how to take care of people. “Yeah, you look it,” he agrees, easy. “Of course, you’re sitting with me instead of partying, so.” 

“Maybe I’d rather stick with you. Better company.” 

Jamie looks at him, tries to see past the tattoos and the flirting and the way he manages to make taking a sip of his drink obscene. “No you’re–-Tyler, right? Mark’s talked about you.” 

Something flickers behind Tyler’s eyes. But he grins again. “Nothing good, I assume.” 

Honestly, what Mark had said hadn’t been particularly good–-Tyler was wild, was the word he’d used. Fun to be around, charming, but wild. Reckless. Immature. 

Of course, Mark also definitely thinks Jamie is an idiot, and only invited him partly because he invited everyone from work and partly as a favor for Jordie, so Jamie’s not sure how much he’s going to believe him. And maybe Tyler is wild, but so far there’s been nothing cruel in how he’s talked to Jamie, and Jamie knows cruel. 

“No, nothing good,” Jamie agrees. That same looks darts over Tyler’s face before he laughs. Jamie keeps looking at him. he doesn’t know how to say it, but he hopes Tyler gets it-–that just because that’s what Mark said, it’s not what he’s going to trust. 

Tyler looks away, down at the table. “Well, he’s going to be my new cousin, so, that’s gonna suck. Gotta keep those Thanksgivings cheerful, you know?” 

“Sure,” Jamie agrees. “And that’s why you’re not happy to be here.” 

“Nah, I just hate weddings.” He shrugs carelessly. 

“You hate weddings?” Jamie hasn’t heard of that. 

“Sure. It’s a weird sort of party, and if you get too drunk people look at you weird, especially when you’re family, and–-everyone has them and then they start being lame, you know? Like, somehow you can be fun and in a relationship, but as soon as you get married, it’s–-poof. All my bros, gone.” 

“Um.” That’s one way of thinking about weddings. “But you don’t like Mark.” 

“No, but Mary’s okay, and it’s just-–the principle.” He shrugs. “It’s fine, you know. Free booze.” His smile flashes again. “Good company.” 

“Oh, I’m not-–” Jamie mutters, and Tyler laughs. 

“You do that a lot, huh?” 

“What?” 

“Deflect so you don’t have to talk about yourself.” Tyler tips his chair back on two legs, raises an eyebrow at Jamie. “Got me talking about me, and so you didn’t have to say why you looked so bummed I had to come over here out of the goodness of my heart.” 

“I, uh. I don’t know,” Jamie starts, and there go his words again. “I mean, I don’t look-–” 

“Suuuure,” Tyler drawls. “Seriously, bro, what’s up? I just spilled all my shit to you, so like, lay it on me.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I promise I can take it.” 

Jamie flushes again. “I just, um. Don’t really know anyone here.”

“Oh?” 

“I work with Mark, but in a different department, so all the other work people here are-–I don’t really know them. And they’re…” he nods at the dance floor. “So, I, um. Don’t–-” he’s not sure how to finish that. of course. 

But Tyler just laughs again, and gets up. Jamie tamps down on his immediate reaction to assume that means Tyler doesn’t like him, is just going to leave. He’s not thinking like that anymore. “Bro, that is something I can handle. We can meet some people, come on.” He grabs Jamie’s wrist, tugs him up. Jamie lets him. Tyler’s eyes flick up when Jamie stands, and there’s a look in his eyes that Jamie might think–-”Yeah, we can  _definitely_ meet some people, damn. Are we talking meet or  _meet_?” 

“I don’t–”

“We’ll see where the night goes, come on. Trust me, I’m the best wingman.” Tyler’s tugging him towards the dance floor, but Jamie digs in his heels. 

“I don’t dance.” 

“Seriously? Looking like you?” Jamie blushes again. Tyler looks delighted. “Okay, fine. Bar. You drink, right?” 

“Definitely.” 

“Awesome. So, meeting some people, hooking you up. There are a lot of hot girls–” 

“Or guys,” Jamie interrupts. He’s not letting this go any farther without that on the table. Not when Tyler’s pulling him around with a hand on his wrist like he’s allowed to. 

Tyler pauses, and looks back at Jamie, and a lot goes over his face at once. “Or guys,” he repeats, and looks like he falters for the first time. “Okay. Then. There are plenty of hot guys here too, we can find you someone.” 

“I don’t-–” Jamie takes a breath. The idea of meeting a ton of new people sounds exhausting right now; the idea of Tyler handing him off to someone else seems unacceptable. “Or we could not? And we could just–-hang out?” 

Another one of those moments where Tyler doesn’t seem to know what to do with that statement, not in a bad way, just confused. “I-–yeah, great. That works too.” His smile flashes, blinding. “As long as I can get another drink.” 

“Oh yeah, I need one too,” Jamie agrees. He lets Tyler pull him over, doesn’t break the hold on his wrist. it’s not until they’re most of the way to the bar that Tyler looks back, notices that he’s still holding on, then looks up at Jamie, like he’s braced for something. Jamie doesn’t know what he’s looking for, so he stays steady. 

“Hey,” Tyler says. “What’s your name? If we’re going to hang out, I need to know.” 

“Jamie,” Jamie tells him. “Jamie Benn.” 

“Jamie Benn,” Tyler repeats, like he’s trying it out. Jamie is a hundred percent sure that he didn’t need to say it that slowly, that drawn out, though, or look so intently at Jamie as he said it. “Well, Jamie,” he goes on, winking. “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.” 

“The beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Jamie corrects, because he can’t not, and Tyler laughs again, shaking his head. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his gaze flicks over Jamie again, makes Jamie shiver a little with it. “I definitely think we’ve got beautiful covered.” 


	59. Sid/Geno: We hooked up randomly at a party once and it turns out you’re friends with my brother AU

Geno spots him at maybe the most awkward time he could–that is, as Geno turns to watch the bride walk down the aisle.

He legitimately thinks he’s hallucinating at first. It makes more sense for him to have some sort of best man-related breakdown than for Sidney Crosby to be sitting in a pew in the back of the church. He can only see a bit of profile and the twist of his shoulders, because Sid’s looking at the bride too, but Geno’s pretty sure–even if he’d never admit it–that he could pick Sidney’s shoulders out of a line up.

It’s that very disbelief that convinces him he’s not hallucinating. If his mind was playing tricks on him, it would do it more believably than Sidney Crosby at his brother’s wedding.

Which leaves him with the conclusion that Sidney Crosby  _is_ at Denis Malkin’s wedding. Which leaves Geno reeling as the ceremony begins, trying to steal looks at him out of the corner of the eye. Once the ceremony really gets going, he gets distracted–Denis and his fiancee have the dreamy-eyed looks of two people desperately in love, and Geno’s enough of a romantic that he likes to see it, for his brother. And maybe he tears up a little, there’s no shame in that.

But then they’re all recessing and Geno sees him again, smiling softly at the bride and groom, all–jaw and eyes and then those eyes catch on Geno and they widen too, like he only just noticed. Geno drags his gaze away.

Then there’s a whirlwind of pictures and getting everyone to the reception, and Geno’s in charge of his grandparents, who don’t really speak English and who are definitely still not pleased that the wedding’s happening in the US, and not Russia, even if Denis has lived in the US since high school. They are reluctantly charmed by the wedding, though, and Geno tries to keep that going as they drive to the reception.

Then they get to the reception and–Sidney’s still there, chatting with some of Denis’s other friends. It’s not even like he’s awkward; he’s chatting and shooting the shit and it’s clear at least some of them know who he is but they aren’t making a deal out of it and neither is he. It’s a far cry from the last time Geno had seen Sidney at a party, awkward and hovering and laughing a little too loudly and sticking close to his teammates and clearly having no idea what to do at a college party.

Then again, that was…ten years ago, now. Sidney’s definitely grown up in the past ten years.

Geno grabs Denis as soon as he appears back in the room. “Why is Sidney Crosby here?” he demands under his breath.

His brother’s eyebrows go up. “Because I invited him?”

“What?” Geno’s breath hisses out. “How do you know him? Why did you never say?” 

“Sometimes the school works with the team, we got to know each other.” Denis shrugs. He can’t look away from his new wife. “Why should I have told you?” 

“Because–because–” Geno stammers. What is he supposed to say to that? It should be obvious. He knows he hasn’t been around since graduation, that he moved away for work and only just came back, but–still. “Because he’s the best hockey player in the world!” Geno finally settles on. That’s an acceptable reason. 

No one knows the other reason. No one other than Geno and Sid, and the memories Geno sometimes dwells on, of Sid pressed against the bathroom wall, of his eager mouth and that fucking ass under Geno’s hands. They’d barely been more than kids then, and neither of them had been totally sober, but Geno could still remember it.

“Are you going to be weird?” Denis asks, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t be weird. I know he’s famous or whatever, but he’s here as my friend, so don’t be–”

“I’m not weird,” Geno retorts. “I won’t be weird.” 

“Okay.” Denis visibly decides not to take that bait. “I’m going to go back to my lovely wife–” he grins at the word, like he can’t keep it in; if Geno weren’t a little annoyed at him he would find it very cute– “And you should find a bridesmaid to dance with before mom comes calling. One son down, you know.” 

“Not until you give her grandkids,” Geno retorts, and Denis laughs and heads over to his wife, who he sweeps off her feet and into a kiss. 

That leaves Geno to–figure out what to do. Which, he thinks, is just avoid Crosby. Sidney. Sid, Geno always thinks of him despite himself, when he sees him playing his heartbreakingly gorgeous hockey on TV, in an arena; the Sid who had smiled so openly at Geno, who had laughed at his jokes like he meant it. Sid who was a–a dream, a mostly unbelievable moment in time.

He manages to do the wedding thing–to dance with relatives, friends, people he just met; to make his best man toast and drink champagne–for most of the night, but then he’s at the bar and there’s someone next to him and he doesn’t need to look over to know who it is. Sid fills rooms. He had at 19, and he does now.

He also doesn’t know what to say. He thinks, in these situations, the more famous person should talk first. He also, if he remembers correctly, thinks he can wait him out.

Sure enough, “So we should probably talk about the elephant in the room,” Sid says, turning to Geno. Up close, he’s somehow more handsome than he is on TV close ups. At 20, he’d been boyishly pretty, still with his baby fat lingering and a body that didn’t seem to know all its edges. Now, he’s grown into that body, and carries it with all the confidence it deserves; now he fits his jaw and his eyes and his cheekbones.

Geno gets himself back together, and snorts. “No beating around the bush, then?” 

Sid smiles, a little sheepishly. “I felt like that would be even more awkward,” he says. “We can do small talk, if you want.”

“No, it’s good.” Geno grins back at him. He’d forgotten this too, somehow; how easy Sid is. Or maybe that’s new, the easygoing way he has with people. “But, um. What is there to say?”

Sid glances to the side, then takes a sip, then, “Thanks, mainly.” He glances up at Geno, through those ridiculous eyelashes. “For not telling anyone about it.”

“Of course I didn’t tell,” Geno scoffs. “I’m not a monster. Did you think I would?” 

Sid’s smile turns more cynical than Geno wants to see. “I had some…problems, after that,” he says evenly. “Nothing that wasn’t dealt with, obviously, but I wasn’t smart about it, back then.”

“What, now you ask for NDAs?” Geno jokes, but when Sid just keeps looking at him, his eyebrows go up. “Really? You think you’re that famous?” 

Sid chuckles. “Better safe than sorry, eh?”

“Sure, if you’re a rock star,” Geno retorts, and Sid flushes and giggles a little. It’s as cute as it was at 20. Probably more. “Also, if people are dicks.” 

“Some are.” Sid shrugs. “I got lucky you weren’t.” 

“Or you have good taste,” Geno says, and gets a laugh out of Sid. 

It’s easy, from there, to go to what Geno’s been doing for the last ten years; Sid keeps the conversation away from him for as long as he can, and Geno only realizes after he manages to get Sid talking about hockey and it’s been going on for ten minutes that it’s because Sid knew this was going to happen. That sort of self-awareness is charming in its own way, and anyway, Geno likes to talk about hockey. He likes listening to Sid think about hockey, in the same way he might like watching an artist paint; watching someone do what they’re good at is a joy of its own. He remembers that too, how Sid had babbled; how interesting that babble had been.

It means he doesn’t move away, even when his drink is done; he orders another one and prompts Sid with another question. Sid’s lips quirk like he gets what he did, but he lets him; he takes a drink and then licks the liquid off his lips, watching Geno. Geno watches back.

“Zhenya!” the cry comes from one of his younger cousins, who comes up to him. She keeps going in Russian. “Zhenya, can you dance with me? Or can you order me a drink? Or–” she cuts off, then her eyes go bigger. “Is that Sidney Crosby?” 

“Privyet,” Sid says, in badly accented but passable Russian. “Menya zovut Sidney Crosby. Chto tvoye?” The girl’s eyes go wide. Geno raises his eyebrows at Sid. 

Sid shrugs. “I play with a lot of Russian guys. They sometimes teach me things other than swear words.”

“I am Anastasia,” Anya says, in careful English. “It is nice to meet you.” She smiles at him, looking all fourteen of her years. “You want to dance?”

Geno opens his mouth to get Sid off the hook, but Sid’s laughing and sliding off his stool. “I’d love to,” he says, and holds out his hand. Anya takes it, glowing, and drags Sid off.

Geno watches as Sid dances with Anya, laughing and good spirited, then he’s handed off to another cousin, and another, and then the boys corner him and start peppering him with questions that have Sid laughing at first, then he’s diagramming something that looks like it involves the centerpiece, various utensils, and some very broken Russian and English. Geno can’t help smiling. This is the part that he also remembers–that Sid’s just a good guy. That Geno likes him, plenty.

It gets to be enough, eventually, that Geno gets up, gets another of the whiskey Sid was drinking, then goes over to where Sid’s explaining, patiently, his power play strategy.  “Okay, I’m borrowing him now,” Geno announces, coming up next to him. He maybe leans a little close to Sid in the process, but it’s definitely an appropriate distance. He can just…feel Sid’s warmth too. He changes to Russian. “Leave him alone, he has better things to do.”

“No, he hasn’t signed an autograph!” Kolya complains, and Sidney laughs. 

“I can do that.” He reaches for a place card, flips it over, and pulls a sharpie out of his jacket pocket.

“You understood that?” Geno asks.

“I understood autograph,” Sid replies. His lips curve up. “Maybe I am that famous.” Geno laughs, Sid grins like he’s proud. “And you don’t have to save me, I’m fine.”

“Maybe I want an autograph,” Geno throws back, and Sid chuckles before he finishes signing things for the kids and lets Geno herd him away, back to the bar.

Maybe Geno monopolizes him a little for the rest of the night, but he thinks he’s excused, and he lets other people talk to him too. He just. Likes hanging out with Sidney. It’s another dream of a moment, another thing to tuck away and remember when he sees Sid on TV. For 2 evenings, he had something special with Sid.

“Okay, I should get home, I have practice tomorrow.” Sid sets down his last drink. 

“You good to drive?” Geno asks. He’s drunker than Sid; it’s not angling for Geno to drive him home. To drive him home, and then maybe Sid would invite him in for a night cap, and then…

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sid stands up. So does Geno, even if he doesn’t have a reason to leave–he’s pretty sure his mom will get mad if he leaves before it’s over. Still, he trails after Sid as he says good-bye to Denis and his wife–Geno gets a pointed look from his brother than he ignores–and then to the door of the venue. 

“I had a good time tonight,” Sid says frankly, a little surprised. “Tell Denis thank you for inviting me, when he’s thinking about anything else.” 

“I will.” Geno shifts. Sid’s lit in the soft streetlights, now; somehow it’s even better. “Good luck on Monday.” 

“Thanks.” Sid smiles, arrogant but quickly hidden, like he doesn’t need luck but he’s not going to ever say it. 

Geno doesn’t want this to end. Geno doesn’t want him to go away into the moonlight again and have him disappear. “Hey.” Geno’s hand is on his arm. It’s…quite an arm. “Do you want to get dinner sometime? Or drinks?”

Sid grins, and it’s like the sun breaking over the horizon; it’s the same smile Geno had seen ten years ago and had inspired him to lean down and just kiss him. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Have to prove that not all people need NDAs,” Geno goes on, and Sidney laughs. 

“We’ll see.” He pulls out the marker again, then pats at his pockets until he comes out with the wedding program, scribbles something on it. “Here. Call me, we’ll set it up.” 

“A Sidney Crosby autograph, I’m so honored,” he teases, and Sid laughs again, flushing a little. Geno wants him to do that all the time. 

“As long as you use it.” 

“I will,” Geno promises. His hand slides down to Sid’s wrist. Sid’s looking up at him, and Geno wonders–but they aren’t 20 and stupid anymore, and Sid still has reasons for his secrets, and Geno wants more than a fleeting moment. 

So he lets his hand drop, and Sid’s still smiling at him, wry and pleased and self-deprecating. “Good.” he says, and then he squeezes Geno’s hand, once, and heads down the stairs. Geno definitely does watch him go, because his ass deserves it. Sid glances back at the bottom of the stairs, definitely catches Geno; Geno grins back, unrepentant. Sid rolls his eyes, lifts a hand in a wave, then he really does go.

Geno waits a second, then heads back into the wedding. It’s his brother’s night, but he thinks he came out of it pretty well.


	60. Sid/Geno: Awkwardly walked in on someone crying in the bathroom AU

Sid, Geno thinks, is taking a long time in the bathroom. 

Geno is drunk enough that that seems not only incorrect, but also unacceptable. Sid should be with the team. More to the point, Sid should be with Geno, because they just won and Geno finally broke his goal drought and now he thinks he should be rewarded by having Sid, warm and laughing and tipsily affectionate, next to him, their knees pressed together in all the ways they don’t talk about. 

Geno is also drunk enough that it seems like a good idea to go check on Sid. That might be a good idea even if he wasn’t drunk; he asks Phil about it and Phil grunts in a way that Geno is pretty sure means it’s a good idea. Of course, Tanger also snickers and says something in French to Brass when Geno gets up, so maybe it’s a bad idea; in general Geno doesn’t trust his teammates in the least when it comes to judging good or bad ideas, so he goes with his first instinct. 

“Sid?” Geno calls, as he pushes the door to the bathroom open. “You ok–” 

He stops. Blinks. Sid is in the bathroom. Sid is apparently finished, but he is perched against the sink counter, and he has a man draped over him, his arms clutching Sid’s shoulders and his face buried in Sid’s chest. He’s making a choked sort of noise that it takes Geno a second to realize is a sob. 

Once he realizes that, Geno clocks what’s happening. It is not the first time it has happened, because Sid is too nice for his own good and too Canadian for his own good, the combination of which can be inconvenient if you want to get somewhere in a hurry. Sometimes Sid encounters fans, and sometimes they are overwhelmed, and Sid will not stop them from talking, and then they start crying, and Sid won’t stop them from doing that either. 

Geno gets the impulse, he does. There’s something about Sid that projects the air of being a great shoulder to cry on. To be fair, it’s true–there’s something about his solidity, the heavy, reliable strength of him, that makes it feel like you can just unload everything onto him and he can carry it for you for a moment, that he can hold it and you up and you won’t be at any risk of falling. Geno’s cried on Sid’s shoulder a time or two. Or three or four, who’s counting. 

Geno’s just skeptical about sharing it. Family, sure. Geno gets that. He’ll concede teammates as well; that’s what the captain’s shoulder is there for. Especially rookies, the kids. Sometimes he’s a little iffier with the older guys, but he’s not going to say anything. Maybe because they don’t hesitate to give him shit when he does, but whatever. 

But random fans–Sid has better things to do with his time than let them cry on him. Things like pay attention to Geno. 

So, “Everything okay?” he asks, loud and pointed. 

The guy on Sid’s chest looks up, gives an embarrassed, choked sob, and collapses into Sid’s arms again. Sid pats his back, looking somehow both compassionate and extremely awkward. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay,” he tells the guy, in the same tone he talks to scared children. Then he looks up at Geno. “It’s good. Chris is just going through some stuff.” 

“And he decide to tell you all about it?” Geno asks. Sid gives him a scolding look, and he subsides a little, but he’s right. Sid should be out with the team–with Geno. Not in a bathroom with some guy. “Fine. I help, we finish up, then we go.” Sometimes, with Sid and fans, the only way to get him moving is to be the bad guy. It’s okay. People usually put it up to the language barrier. 

Sid rolls his eyes at Geno over the guys’ shoulder, like he knows what Geno’s doing–good, he should–but he sighs. “Chris’s friend just broke up with her boyfriend.” 

“This bad?” 

“She just–he’s not worthy,” the guy, Chris, sobs. He lifts his head up–he’s flushed either from crying or because he’s more than a little drunk. “He’s such a shitbag and she’s the most amazing person in the universe and it always happens like this.” 

“So you want her date you now?” Geno doesn’t have a lot of sympathy for that view, even if Sid’s too nice to say it. Sometimes there’s someone you’re into for years and the timing never quite works or you both tacitly decide that it’s best not to do anything because of outside circumstances. Sometimes that person is a friend. Sometimes that person is your captain and your friend and your work husband and the best person in the universe, and you just have to live with that fact. You don’t get to throw a fit whenever they date someone else. 

You do get to be snippy when they’re pinned in the bathroom instead of laughing at your jokes, though. That’s definitely fair game. 

But Chris’s brow furrows. “What? No. I mean, if she wanted to–but she doesn’t, or she doesn’t think it’s a good idea, we work together…I just want her to be with someone who’s good for her, and doesn’t have her crying, and me with everything and having to deal with it at work and knowing she’s hurting and then my roommates’ drama is there too and it’s so much and now I’m crying in front of Sidney Crosby and–hic–Geno Malkin,” he ends on a wail, and his head falls back down into Sid. 

Sid pets at his hair. Geno narrows his eyes at that. He doesn’t think this guy’s life sucks so badly it gets hair petting. That feels like it should be more reserved. Ideally to Geno, but he’s not selfish. Maybe some of Sid’s best friends can have it too. He knows Tanger went through shit, he probably deserves some hair petting. Geno’s not sure he’s willing to go farther than that. 

“Don’t worry, crying helps,” Sid says, because he is a hypocrite and likes to pretend he’s got emotional depth when Geno knows perfectly well that he hasn’t cried since, like, 2012, because he doesn’t believe in crying when he could be doing. “And, you know. She’ll find someone, it’ll just take time. All you can do is wait and be there for them.” He looks up, and now he’s just looking at Geno, and all the air goes out of Geno’s lungs. He always wants Sid’s attention, but sometimes he forgets the full force of it, how it weighs and thrills in him. “And sometimes good things happen if you wait. Maybe things will change, and then–it’ll work out.” 

“I’m not doing some nice guy tm shit,” Chris protests, but his crying’s faded a little bit. “I just want her to be happy.” 

“We know. We get.” Geno doesn’t look away from Sid either. “So you go, be good friend. Find other friend to cry on. Maybe something happen, maybe it doesn’t. Time tells.” 

“Time will tell,” Sid corrects softly. “For sure.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Chris straightens, takes an embarrassed step away from Sid, and wipes at his eyes. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I met Sidney Crosby and I started crying.” 

Sid chuckles, rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s fine, it happens more often than you’d think.” He doesn’t talk about the years it took him to get used to it, but Geno knows. Geno keeps those parts of Sid he knows under strict lock and key, the parts of Sid that are Geno’s and not anyone else’s. “You good to go back out there?”

“Yeah.” Chris swallows. “I—-can I, like, buy you a beer or something in apology? Or get you a new shirt?“ 

“No.” Geno cuts in there. This guy has taken enough of Sid’s energy and attention already. “No, he not need another shirt, already have enough of same one.” 

“That’s not true,” Sid protests. Geno ignores him, but slings an arm around his shoulders. Just in case. 

“Okay.” Chris glances between them. “And, uh. I won’t–I mean, I really am sorry, but, can you–”

“Yeah, for sure,” Sid agrees, and takes out the sharpie that Geno will never stop making fun of him for carrying on him at all times. Chris digs in his pocket and produces a receipt; Sid signs it, then hands both to Geno with a pointed look. Geno scrawls his name over it too. He would have anyway; he’s not a monster.

“Okay, good now,” Geno announces, handing the receipt to Chris and the pen to Sid. “We go. Nice to meet, Chris, good luck with friend.” 

“Um, yeah, thanks,” Chris mumbles, and Sid hesitates like he thinks Chris needs more taking care of before Geno tugs him away. At least he lets himself be moved, so he does get it. 

“That was rude,” he tells Geno anyway, when they’re out of the bathroom. “He was still–” 

“He done crying, not need you any more,” Geno cuts him off. “Not need you at all, you not anything to him.” 

“But he needed help–” 

“And you give. Now you come back to team,” Geno informs him. “They need you. Do all sorts of stupid things without you.” 

“Oh, they need me,” Sid retorts, and he clearly means it about the stupid shit, but–

Geno glances sidelong at him, even as they push through the crowd. “You mean what you say?” he asks, quiet as he can. “That if Chris waits, good things happen?” 

Sid looks at him, steady as a rock–Geno’s rock, his single greatest constant throughout the last decade. Definitely the most important person to him for that time, and Geno can’t see that changing any time soon. “Yeah,” Sid says slowly. Deliberately. “Time will tell, right?” 

“I think time tell good things,” Geno tells him, and gets Sid’s laugh as they get back to the team tables. 

Geno herds Sid in in front of him, then stretches out his arms over the back of the booth so his hand can sort of play with the hair at the nape of Sid’s neck–he has a lot of limbs, he needs to put them somewhere, thanks Tanger’s judgmental face. Sid glances at him when he feels it, but he just grins, quick and secret and just for them, and goes back to his argument with Horny about the Steelers. Geno grins back, and relaxes. Sid’s back, and next to him, and even if he isn’t actively paying attention to Geno now Geno knows he’s aware of him. 

Time will tell, he agrees with himself. Time will tell good things. 


	61. Tyson/Gabe: soulmates AU

Gabe comes into the locker room and maybe drops his shit into his stall a little louder than usual. 

It doesn’t get much of a reaction. There’s plenty of guys around, getting ready for practice, but apparently their captain coming in isn’t enough to get them to -pay attention. That feels right. Gabe sighs again, and starts getting ready too. 

“Okay, I’ll bite.” That’s Mikko, because he has no respect. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” Gabe strips off his shirt. That makes him look at the green mark sprawled over his hip–the name bigger and brighter than most people’s. Normally that makes him fond. Right now he doesn’t want to see it, particularly. 

Mikko raises his eyebrows. “That seems not true.” 

“It’s fine,” Gabe mutters. He is fine. His hand presses down at the mark. 

The door to the locker room opens again, then, and Nate and Tyson come in–loudly, of course. Another thing that Gabe would usually be fond of. This time it gets attention, though–Josty immediately snaps to attention. 

“Tys! You have more pictures?”

“Of course I have pictures of the baby,” Tyson agrees on a laugh. He glances at Gabe, grins–his usual welcoming, hi how are you sort of check in. Gabe smiles back because he’s found it impossible not to smile at Tyson basically since he met him, but he then he turns back to fiddle with his under armor. 

“Well?” JT demands, and Gabe bets that’s Tyson pulling out his phone. 

“Everyone, meet Ralphie,” Tyson declares. There’s the usual sound of a bunch of large men cooing over a small dog. 

“Gabe!” comes the yell from the scrum. “Have you met your new son?” 

Gabe turns around again. Most of the team is crowded around Tyson’s phone, looking at pictures of the puppy. Tyson’s looking up at Gabe though, smiling hopefully. Gabe can see the edges of the mark curling on his collarbone, the one Gabe knows as well as he knows the back of his hand. 

“Yes,” Gabe tells them, because he has–because he was there when Tyson brought him home, and it was very sweet, a little curly thing all full of energy and affection. At least there was that. “He’s very cute.” 

“Isn’t he?” Tyson agrees proudly, and shows his phone around. “He’s so smart, too.” 

“So definitely not your real son,” EJ throws in, and Tyson wrinkles his nose at him. 

“Okay, enough gawking,” Gabe decides. “Everyone, time to get out there.” 

There’s grumbling, but, “Sir yes sir,” Tyson agrees cheerfully, which gets even more groans and a sock thrown at Tyson. But it gets everyone moving. 

Tyson grabs Gabe before he can actually go out onto the ice, though, a hand curling around his forearm. “Hey,” he says, softer. “Morning.” 

“Morning.” Gabe has to smile at him again–at Tyson’s face, at the way he looks at Gabe, at just, all of him. He taps his fingers at his hip, at the mark there. 

“You okay?” Tyson asks, and his gaze is a little more searching now, his brows furrowed. Quiet, gentle, like he only likes to get when no one can see. Well, no one other than Gabe. “You seemed a little off.” 

Gabe shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says, and knocks his forehead lightly against Tyson before he heads out to the ice. 

He is fine. He is, except–

 

“Tyson, want to get lunch?” 

“I can’t, I need to get home to the puppy.” 

and 

“Come over tonight, babe.” 

“I can’t leave Ralphie, sorry.” 

and 

“Can I stay over?” 

“No, you need your beauty sleep–well, you don’t, but the idiom stands–and Ralphie’s still up every couple of hours, you should go home so one of us is rested.” 

and 

“Zoey misses you, come over.” 

“I can’t smell like another dog now! What will Ralphie think? We’ll be over soon so he can meet his sister.” 

* * *

So Gabe is fine. Totally fine. He hasn’t spent more than a couple hours off the ice with his soulmate for what feels like forever, but that’s–fine. 

He tells this to Zoey, who looks up at him glumly, like she both doesn’t believe him and also misses Tyson. Gabe traces the lines on his hip. It’s not like they’ve gone away. It’s not like he even doubts that Tyson still loves him, because Tyson’s pretty vocal about that, on ice and off, in bed and out. Or, maybe not vocal, but–he still looks at Gabe like he did since the first time Gabe took off his shirt in the locker room, his eyes big and amazed and  _happy_ , like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have Gabe as a soulmate. Gabe still sees him doing the same thing Gabe’s doing now, tracing his soulmark idly, like a comfort. 

So really, Gabe is fine. He has a soulmate who loves him, the team’s winning, it’s all. Fine. He goes out without Tyson and goes home without Tyson and maybe he’s getting a little snippy sometimes–or enough that he’s getting looks in the locker room–and it’s. Fine. 

“Hey,” says Tyson, after practice. He hesitates just outside of Gabe’s stall, keeping out of his space in a way he hasn’t for years. “Want to come over?” 

Gabe stares at the bench in front of him so he doesn’t say yes too fast. A part of him wants to say no, just to spite Tyson–that he doesn’t get to just finally decide to spend time with Gabe again and Gabe will jump at it. 

“I’ll make us dinner,” Tyson adds, fast. Everyone’s giving them a wide berth. 

Gabe’s always known he can’t actually hold out. He doesn’t even want to, really. “Sure,” he agrees. Tyson’s smile flickers, but it’s still somehow–off. Maybe if Gabe was allowed to spend any time wiht him, he’d know why, he thinks bitterly, stripping off his wet pads and throwing them harder than maybe necessary down into his stall. 

“Um, good. Nate gave me a ride, so…” 

“Sure, Tys,” Gabe agrees again. Of course he was going to give Tyson a ride, did Tyson think he’d forgotten how this works? They’d–fuck, in the first few months after they’d Matched, they’d had some good times like that, keyed up from games or good practices or just each other, when they could barely get home in time to tumble out of the car and into one of their bed. Even recently, after a good game, sometimes Gabe’s rushed them home a little too fast, while Tyson’s hand moved too high up his thigh. 

Tyson opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then he shakes his head, and goes back to his stall to get ready. 

Gabe glances over to find EJ watching. “What?” he demands. 

“Trouble in paradise?” EJ asks. Gabe snorts. 

“It’s fine.” 

* * *

It’s not a quiet car ride, but Gabe’s resigned himself to quiet car rides being rare since he Matched. Tyson chatters on about practice, and Ralphie, and Nate, and his family, and Gabe’s family because Bea and Tyson really like to text each other and then make Gabe feel out of the loop. It’s not Tyson’s easy rambling, though. It’s the sort of ramble that he does after a bad game to fill the silence, or after someone gets hurt, or the one time he and Nate got into an honest-to-god fight and he was edgy for days until they made up. 

Gabe listens and waits. He’s not sure why Tyson’s on edge. But then again, if they’d actually spent any real time together in the last few weeks, Tyson could have told him. 

As soon as they get through the door of Tyson’s, there’s a high-pitched cacophony of barking and a blur of brown as Ralphie comes skidding over the hardwood. He skates a little, misdirects, and almost bashes into Tyson’s legs before he rights himself and starts to jump. 

“No, don’t, no, down, Ralph,” Tyson chides him, but he’s laughing as he kneels down so Ralphie can lick his face. Gabe might be annoyed, but it’s adorable–the dog and Tyson’s delighted laughter. Gabe can’t really be mad at anything that makes Tyson laugh like that.  

It takes a while for Ralphie to calm down enough to notice someone else is there, but when he does he noses at Gabe’s legs too, because he is as needy for attention as his dad. Gabe kneels down to scratch at his head. He can’t not, that would just be rude. 

If Ralphie senses anything, he doesn’t seem to care; he pushes into Gabe’s hand and barks excitedly. 

“I should take him out,” Tyson says. Gabe looks up–Tyson’s looking down at him, smiling, but it’s a little off–a little wan. “Do you want to…” 

“I can start lunch,” Gabe volunteers. They both need to eat. 

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I–you know where everything is,” Tyson stammers, then he grabs Ralphie’s leash and clips it on. He gives Gabe one more of those smiles before he’s out the door again. 

It’s odd. Tyson hasn’t stammered at Gabe for a while, not since he got over the first overwhelming shock and awe of Matching. Maybe this is what happens if they don’t spend time in close proximity, Tyson forgets, Gabe thinks snidely to himself, then he gets up and goes to look through Tyson’s kitchen for something to get Tyson to make for him. 

It’s been a while since he’s been in Tyson’s kitchen for any period of time. He drags his hand over the marble of the countertop, opens the fridge. It’s as well-stocked as usual–Tyson likes to pretend he’s incompetent but he’s actually a pretty good cook–and Gabe knows there’ll be ice cream in the freezer, both their favorite flavors. 

Fuck, Gabe just misses this. Misses him. His hand is on his hip, somehow, tracing the lines. 

“Do you want to break up?” 

“ _What_?” Gabe spins. Tyson’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Ralphie’s leash in one hand. Gabe can hear claws against wood somewhere down the hall. 

Tyson visibly steels himself. “I–you’ve been so weird lately, and like, so bitchy and angry, and you haven’t  _said_ anything so I can only think–do you want to break up?” 

“What?” It’s so stunning that Gabe can’t think of what to say. “Tyson, we’re soulmates.” 

“Soulmates don’t always work. Matched people break up. Or get divorced. Or–”

“No,” Gabe cuts him off, before he can go any farther. He doesn’t want to hear it; the mere thought of it hurts. The expression on Tyson’s face hurts, the way he’s clearly trying to look stoic and resigned but the fear is bleeding through the edges. “No, what the fuck–no.” 

He’s entirely too far away. He crosses the kitchen so he can grab Tyson’s hand, uncurling his tensed fist so Gabe can interlock their fingers. He uses the other hand to rest on Tyson’s mark. Tyson’s still got that look on, but he relaxes into Gabe’s touch. 

“So that’s a no then?” he says, like he’s trying to make a joke but can’t quite do it. “To the breaking up.”

Gabe doesn’t really have words, to say just how much of a no it is. To tell Tyson how much of an idiot he is for thinking he’d ever let Tyson go if Tyson didn’t want it. 

He tugs Tyson in to kiss him instead, to hopefully get that across. Tyson’s hand that isn’t tangled with Gabe’s between them wraps around Gabe’s hip to tug him closer, and he kisses back just as desperate and needy, so Gabe thinks he gets it. 

Then there’s barking, and Tyson breaks away to grin at Ralphie, who seems very suspicious of what’s happening. 

“Hey, it’s okay, bud,” he says, scratching at Ralphie’s ears. Gabe sighs. Tyson’s eyesbrows go up. “Okay, so you’re not breaking up with me. Want to talk about why you’ve been so bitchy, then?” 

“I haven’t been–” 

“You’re scaring rookies.” Tyson glances away for a second, then back at Gabe. “You scared me, Gabe. We’ve got to be able to talk about our shit or else we really will end up being one of those Matched couples.” 

Gabe looks down at their still intertwined hands. “What, have you grown up now?” 

“Gabe.” Tyson tugs at their hands. “Come on. Just talk about it and then we can have lunch.” 

“It’s–” God, it feels stupid saying it out loud, knowing how much it did scare Tyson. He’s fine, it’s not a big deal, it’s not–Tyson thought he was going to  _break up_ with him. “I just miss you.” 

Tyson’s eyebrows go up. “We’re on the same team. We spend like, most of our time together.” 

“Not–” Gabe grits his teeth. If he has to do this, he can. For them. “You don’t, though. You’ve been spending all your time with Ralphie, and you haven’t stayed over in like two weeks, and you don’t go out to lunch or out with us or with me.” Tyson’s smiling a little, and Gabe glances away again. “I know it’s stupid.” 

“No–I mean, yeah, definitely, but I knew you were ridiculous when we Matched, that’s not a surprise.” Tyson nudges his chin up. “Are you jealous of a dog, Landy?” 

“Zoey is,” Gabe mutters. “She’s feeling neglected too.” 

“Zoey’s always my best girl.” Despite everything, it feels good to hear Tyson say it like that, like it’s obvious. “I’ve just been–puppies are a lot of work, Gabe.” 

“I know that. But you’ve spent all your time on it and you haven’t even asked me to help or be part of it really and I’m your soulmate I’m supposed to be part of it. And you just got a puppy on your own!” It’s pouring out of Gabe now, all the things he claimed he was fine with. “We’re soulmates, didn’t you think you should talk with me?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that I had to ask your permission,” Tyson snaps back. 

“It’s not about permission, it’s about–I thought we were going to move in together soon! If it’s going to be real we’ve got to make decisions as a unit and that includes big life choices like pets, I–what?” he asks, because Tyson’s got a look on, confused but not in a bad way. 

“You thought we were going to move in together soon?” 

“Yeah, of course.” They’d been sort of drifting in that direction lately, Gabe had thought. That sort of domesticity. “Did you not?” 

“You didn’t say anything about it,” Tyson mutters, his ears going a little red. “I wasn’t sure.” 

Gabe rolls his eyes. “What, did you think we were going to spend the rest of our lives with two separate houses within a ten minute drive?” 

“You’re a weird dude, Landy, I don’t know what you’re into,” Tyson retorts. Then he looks back down at his hands. “I didn’t–I mean, maybe I should have talked to you about Ralphie. It was just kind of spur of the moment and he was so cute and, I don’t know, I just–we hadn’t said we were at the place where I had to talk with you about it. And then, like. You didn’t choose to have a puppy again, i didn’t want to make you deal with all the stuff that comes with it.” 

“We are.” Gabe informs him. “We are at the sort of place where we make decisions together, right?” 

“Yeah.” Tyson nods. 

“And the sort of place where I deal with your stuff with you,” Gabe goes on. “Even when it’s waking up to deal with a puppy. Right?” 

“Right.” Tyson looks up again, meets Gabe’s gaze squarely. “But that means you’ve got to talk to me if I’m messing up, okay? Don’t–I don’t want to have to guess again, I can’t read your mind.” 

“The answer isn’t that I want to break up. It never is.” 

“Then tell me before my brain goes there, eh?” Tyson squeezes Gabe’s hand.

“Okay.” Gabe agrees. 

For a long moment, Tyson just looks at him, and it’s that look again, like he thinks he’s the one who got  inexplicably lucky in the soulmate lottery. 

Then his lips quirk. “Great, now we’ve talked that out, and think that together, we should make a decision to shut Ralphie out of the bedroom and decide what I should do to make sure you don’t feel neglected anymore,” he announces cheerfully, the tension cracking into a thousand pieces. 

Gabe laughs, and it’s–”God, I missed you,” he says again, and means it. 

Tyson tugs him in to kiss him again, quick but hard. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, as he breaks away. “I don’t–I love you, you know that.” 

“More than Ralphie?” 

“Well.” Tyson’s grinning at him, mischief in his gaze, and Gabe has to smile back. “Let’s not go crazy.” 


	62. Taylor/Jordan/Ryan: meeting again at a high school reunion au

Taylor’s already smiling as he enters the school gym. 

Like, he gets that for a lot of people, high school reunions suck, because high school sucked, but Taylor honestly liked high school. He got to play hockey and hang out with his best friends and have parties that now he realizes were lame but that he thought were awesome then, what wasn’t there to like? So he’s smiling as he walks through the halls, which somehow manage to look exactly the same as ten years ago, down to the posters, and he’s definitely smiling as he greets the man and woman sitting at the table–James and Shonda, who are the people in charge of this and who he didn’t know well in high school but he thinks James played baseball and Shonda sat in front of him in math class. 

They greet him by name too, and he opens the door and walks in and it’s–well, it’s kind of lame, if he had to admit it. Like, they tried to make the gym look nice, and there are streamers and everything, but it looks sort of like a school dance, except for how all the people in the gym are ten years too old for that and the guys’ suits actually fit. Taylor’s not saying he expected luxury, but he’d expected a bit more. 

Still, there’s–”Hey, Hall!” comes a man, and Taylor turns to greet the guy–Andrew?–who slaps him on the back and talks to him a lot about his slapshot, which Taylor nods about, because he can always talk about hockey. It’s what he spends his life doing, after all. 

Taylor keeps talking, to Andrew and the other people who come up and want to chat with him, but he keeps looking over their shoulders, too–this is a time when it’s good to be taller than average. He wants to talk to everyone, but really he wants to talk to–

He sees dark hair first, dark hair and a flash of blue eyes and Taylor doesn’t need more than that before he’s muttering an “excuse me” to whoever he was talking to before he’s walking very quickly across the room. For a second, he considers that maybe he should wait until the conversation is finished, be dignified–but screw dignity, so instead he just throws himself onto Jordan’s back, wrapping his arms around him. “Ebby!” he yells, squeezing Jordan tight. 

Jordan sways like he wasn’t expecting to be hit with an entire hockey player, but he doesn’t falter, either. Taylor can feel his breathing go suddenly quick, though; Taylor hugs him harder. 

“Hi, Hallsy,” Jordan says, and Taylor can see his grin side-on from here. It’s the same grin it was almost twenty years ago, when Taylor sat down next to a dark-haired, gap-toothed kid in homeroom and the kid immediately asked him about his Flames t-shirt. Like his body is different than it was ten years ago, the last time Taylor hugged him, but it’s still  _Jordan_. “Wasn’t sure you’d be here.” 

“Of course I’m here,” Taylor protests. He doesn’t let go. Jordan’s gotten a little taller, but he’s still the right height for Taylor to rest his chin on Jordan’s shoulder. “Where else would I be?” 

“Toronto?” Jordan suggests. It’s where Taylor has a game tomorrow, that he’s flying back for tomorrow morning. 

Taylor lets go of Jordan, so he can swing around to look at him. “You know that?” he asks. He’d sort of figured Jordan might know what team he plays for, but not their schedule. 

Jordan shrugs, glances away. “I keep up with the teams.” 

“Do you root for me?” Taylor asks, feeling surprisingly urgent. Now that he he can see Jordan, he can really see the differences–Jordan’s filled out, put on what looks like weight and muscle both; he’s got some sort of calmness to him that he was only starting to have ten years ago; he’s carrying himself taller. But he’s got the same gap-toothed grin, his eyes are the same bright blue, and the way he rolls his eyes at Taylor is the same. 

“No, I hope you get smashed into the boards every game,” he tells Taylor. He’s definitely lying. Taylor grins. 

“No you don’t,” he teases back. He glances around again, then back at Jordan, because he can’t help it. It’s been ten years since he was the boy who’d been his best friend–oh, they’d made an attempt at communicating, at staying in touch, but Jordan had been in college and Taylor had been in juniors and it just hadn’t worked, until they both stopped texting. “Do you know if–” 

“I think so,” Jordan finishes, before Taylor can finish formulating the question. Taylor grins at him again. He loves his team, loves all the friends he’s made, but there’s something to the way Jordan knows him that’s different. Jordan and, well. “I asked him when we got drinks last week, and he said he might be, but he wasn’t sure if his cases would line up right. But as of last night he was going to be catching a flight.” 

“Cases?” Taylor asks. 

Jordan’s smile goes wry. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer. Did you not know?”  

“Um.” Taylor may have known, at some point. He thinks he did. Like he thinks Ebs is–a teacher? Maybe? He might just be assuming that because of how much Ebs had used to like that sort of thing, tutoring kids and all that. “No, I knew.” 

“Sure.” Jordan agrees, clearly not believing him. “So what do I do?” 

“Um. Teacher?” Taylor guesses, and knows he’s right by Jordan’s face. “Hah!” 

“Lucky guess,” Jordan retorts. “I–oh, Ryan!” He grins, big and wide, and then Ryan’s there too, embracing Jordan with the easy, casual affection of someone who’s done it a lot. Taylor considers being offended, a little; clearly they’ve been hanging out without him, which isn’t cool at all. But also–they’re here, Jordan grinning at Ryan and Ryan smiling back, and then Ryan relaxing into the hug Taylor pulls him into, as big as it was for Ebs, and hugging back. He’s definitely more solid now, always somehow ageless but also more solid, and his laugh is louder. 

“Hey, Hallsy,” he says into Taylor’s ear. “We didn’t know if you’d be here.” 

“Everyone is saying that,” Taylor protests. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because you’re in the NHL and definitely too cool for this place?” Ryan says, waving his hand around and somehow managing to take in the lameness of the streamers. 

“That’s no change, though, I’ve always been too cool,” Taylor replies, and it’s just so–so easy. Like, he likes the rest of it, but really, if he had to narrow down why, when he got the invitation to the reunion, he didn’t just throw it away and instead immediately called the front office to figure it out–it’s this. It’s Jordan and Ryan, standing in front of him. Standing with him, like they always had. Taylor had always had his team, and Ryan had his clubs and Jordan had all his school stuff, but…it was the three of them. 

“I remember when you fell into a garbage can and–” Ryan starts, and Jordan’s grinning because he remembers too, but Taylor interrupts. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. Jordan and Ryan exchange a look, one of those looks they always used to exchange, the Taylor’s being weird looks. Taylor had not missed those looks. 

“You just got here,” Jordan points out. 

“There’s nowhere else to go in this town,” Ryan adds. 

“Not–out out. Just. Not here.” Taylor grins at them. “Someplace where we can catch up, you know?” 

Ryan glances at Jordan. “Bleachers?” he suggests. Something about the way he says it is like he’s being gentle–like he’s expecting Jordan not to want to. Taylor gives Jordan his best puppy dog eyes in response. Jordan hadn’t been able to resist them once, maybe that’s still true. 

Jordan sighs. “Only if we steal a bottle from the bar,” he says, and Taylor grins and punches him on the shoulder. 

“That’s right!” he cheers, and Jordan gives Ryan another  _look_ before he smiles too. 

* * *

They ensconce themselves on the bleachers by the football field, like they always had. God, how many hours had they spent here–Ryan and Taylor playing video games as Jordan tried to study; Taylor and Jordan arguing about nothing at all until Ryan finished with whatever extracurricular he was in charge of that week to let out and he could come join them and keep arguing too; Taylor throwing a ball around because he was bored and seeing Ryan and Jordan leaning against each other, looking at the same book, and Taylor just feeling so full of joy and fondness. 

He feels that way now too, watching them stretch out on the bleachers, Taylor perched on the riser below them. He can see the sharp line of Ryan’s jaw and cheekbones, the curve of Jordan’s smile. 

“So. Catch me up,” he says, once they’ve settled in and finished discussing how apparently the hockey team here sucks now. “My life’s all like, out there, but yours isn’t. What’s happened?” Something occurs to him–it’s been ten years. “Are you  _married_?”

 It seems inconceivable, but also–Ryan’s always pretended like he’s self-sufficient except that Taylor and Jordan always knew better, but Jordan liked to joke he raised Taylor when they were 17. Jordan’s the kind of person who would get married. Except–Taylor doesn’t like the idea. Doesn’t like the idea of not being invited, for sure, but also–it just sits oddly, like it always had. 

“Nope,” Ryan says simply. Jordan looks at Ryan, then grabs the whiskey bottle from him. 

“No,” he says, but it’s not simple–it’s determined. Way more than just a no should be. He takes a swig from the whiskey bottle. 

“Ebs…” Ryan murmurs, like a warning.

But Jordan ignores him, just looks at Taylor, and goes on, “I haven’t had a boyfriend for a while, either.” 

It takes Taylor a second to hear, to process. But then. “Oh.  _Oh_.” 

“Yeah.” Jordan’s staring at Taylor, like he’s daring him to react badly. Taylor isn’t. he’s not going to. He’s just–processing. 

As he does so, Ryan moves, nudges Jordan’s foot with his. Taylor watches the motion. “And you knew?” he asks Ryan. 

Ryan shrugs, but it’s Jordan who answers. “I came out to Ryan in college,” he says, a little like a dare. 

“Well…” Ryan puts in, with a little private smile at Jordan. 

“Well,” Jordan agrees, with that smile back. Taylor blinks at them. This is–he thought it was the three of them, but Ryan and Jordan apparently had their own separate lives. Well, together lives. Just not with him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Taylor demands. 

“By the time I was telling people, we weren’t–you’d moved on.” 

“I didn’t move on from you,” Taylor protests. They’d grown apart, they’d stopped talking as much, but he didn’t–that makes it sound like he’d just ditched Jordan. And Ryan. Which he hadn’t. He’d just–they’d been busy. They’d all been busy. Right? “I’d have made time for something important.” He pauses, then pushes on. “Did you think I’d be a dick about it? I wouldn’t, I wear the pride tape and everything.” 

“Because that means so much,” Jordan retorts, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Come on, you’re in the NHL, Hallsy. That’s not a place known to be welcoming to gay dudes.” 

“No, but–you know  _me._ ” It should be enough. It was supposed to be enough. He never wanted–god, he never wanted to drive Jordan away, him or Ryan. He just…they’d been so much, and then they’d been gone, and Taylor had maybe convinced himself it would be better that way. “Come on, Ebs. Did you really think I’d be a dick? That I wouldn’t support you? Because if you did I need to change some shit.” 

Jordan takes another swig of whiskey. “No,” he says, and it’s gentler this time. “No, I didn’t think you’d be a dick, but–I just couldn’t. Not until it would have been weird and too late.” 

“Why? You told Ryan.” Taylor throws an apologetic look at Ryan, because he doesn’t want to suggest he was a better friend to Jordan than Ryan or anything, but Ryan’s not looking at him. Ryan’s looking at Ebs. 

Jordan looks at Taylor, then at Ryan, then takes another drink from the whiskey bottle, mutters something that sounds like fuck it. “Yeah. Well. I was in love with you, so it was sort of different.” 

Taylor freezes at that. “What?” he demands, his voice going high-pitched. “You were what?”

“I was in love with you,” Jordan repeats. He’s not looking at Taylor any more. “I guess I can tell you now, but–fuck, I couldn’t have told you then.” 

“You were–did you know?” Taylor asks, spinning to face Ryan. 

Ryan’s still not looking at him. “Yeah,” he says, and it doesn’t come out quite as easy as Taylor thinks it was meant to. 

But Jordan looks up, at Ryan, because he can look at Ryan. “You did? I didn’t tell–” 

“I could tell,” Ryan says, a little quiet. There’s something in how he’s looking at Jordan. It’s how he always looks at Jordan, but– “I knew, Jordan. Come on.” 

“But–” Jordan blinks at him. “You didn’t–” 

“You clearly didn’t want me to know,” Ryan tells him, shrugging. He hasn’t looked away from Jordan. 

“Even when we–” Jordan cuts himself off, but Taylor knew him very well, once. Or he thought he had. 

“Wait, you too?” he asks, and smacks Ryan’s knee until he looks at Taylor. “You had a girlfriend Junior year!” 

Ryan shrugs. “I like both,” he says, and Taylor gapes. Both of them? They’d both had that? They’d both–

“And you hooked up?” he demands. “When?” 

Even if they had wanted to deny it, the guilty looks they shoot at each other give it away. Taylor grabs the whiskey from Ebs, takes a sip. Jordan’s lips were there a second ago, he thinks, out of nowhere, and drinks again. 

“Um. Senior year?” 

“Right before graduation,” Ryan specifies. There’s something stubborn about the way he’s looking down at Taylor. “At the big party at Jerome’s.”

Taylor remembers that party. He’d been pretty drunk, but he remembers sitting by the firepit with Jordan’s head on his lap and Jordan’s feet kicked over Ryan’s lap and Ryan’s shoulder brushing against his, and thinking how he never wanted to be anywhere else, thinking how good Jordan’s hair felt under his hands, how the firelight caught on Ryan’s cheekbones. Was that before or after, he wonder? Did they go from sitting in a pile with Taylor to each other? Or did they come from that? 

He swallows, abruptly. Takes another drink. “How didn’t I notice?” 

Jordan snorts, but it’s Ryan who answers. “You didn’t notice a lot of things, Hallsy.” 

“I was busy,” Taylor mutters in protest. “I–” He what? he hadn’t noticed this big part of his best friends’ lives? He hadn’t noticed that his best friend was  _in love with him_? 

“I need to–” Jordan shakes his head, gets up. Taylor surges upright to catch his hand. 

“Don’t leave,” he says. Protests. Begs. 

Jordan’s lips twitch, though there’s still something wild in his eyes. “I’ve just got to piss, Hallsy. I’ll be right back.” Taylor’s pretty sure he’s lying about the excuse, but not about coming back, so he lets Jordan go. 

Then he leans back, rests his head against the riser above him, next to Ryan’s knee. Looks up at the stars. “You really knew?” he asks. 

He hears Ryan shifts. “About what?” 

Right, because apparently there were so many secrets. “Any of it.”

“I was still figuring me out. That’s why i didn’t say anything, I was working on it.” That’s very Ryan. Ryan works on things himself, then presents them complete like he never worked on them at all. “Then–you did kind of bail, Taylor. We got it, you were busy, it’s not like we didn’t expect it, but–you can’t do that than expect us to tell you things.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“Well you did.” Ryan  says. “And it was a dick move.” 

“Fine.” Taylor is a big enough person to say he can admit that. If he could do it again, he’d do better. “And the–Jordan being in love with me? Was it that obvious?” 

“I mean, it wasn’t subtle, but you were a pretty oblivious kid.” Ryan takes the bottle from Taylor, drinks. Now all three of their mouths were there. “And you didn’t have the context.” 

“You didn’t either, really.” Taylor points out. “Not until the end of the year. Or did you know before?” 

“No, not…” Ryan shakes his head. he takes another drink. “But I was paying Ebs a lot of attention, at that point.” 

“You–really?” Ryan shrugs. He looks careless, even, like he doesn’t care that Taylor just figured out his crush on Jordan. But Taylor knows how much of a facade that always was. “But he, with me–”

“Yeah.” 

“Shit.” 

“You’re telling me,” Ryan snorts, and then he goes quiet too. 

Probably thinking about high school–about the last time they’d been here. When Taylor had apparently missed so much. 

Although–he thinks back. He’d always known how easy Jordan was for him, how he could get Jordan to do just about anything. Maybe he’d even known how Jordan’s eyes lingered. He hadn’t thought about it, but–he hadn’t avoided it. 

And he remembers watching Ryan watch Ebs, sometimes–how he’d smile at Ebs, how once someone said something shitty about Jordan for being a nerd and Ryan had punched him before Taylor could. Had he known then, too? 

“Did Jordan know? About you?” he asks, before he can think better of it. 

He can’t see Ryan, so he doesn’t know what he looks like. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think he’d have hooked up with me, if he did know.” Ryan snorts. “I think he was too hung up on you to see anyone else, honestly.” 

“Sorry,” Taylor says, because he feels like he should. Not, he discovers, because he means it. 

Ryan snorts again. “It wasn’t your fault. I got that. I mean, I got it. You were–you.” 

Taylor sits up, so he can look at Ryan. “What does that mean?” 

Ryan sits up too. The lights of the gym behind them are catching in his pale eyes, on the line of his jaw. Taylor’s never been quite sure how to quantify his attractiveness, except to know it’s there. “That you were–Taylor Hall, NHL prospect, everyone loved you, hot and charming and–all that. And my best friend. Our best friend.” He sighs. “I wasn’t even jealous. It made sense.” 

“Oh.” Taylor swallows, this time. “I would have been cool about it, you know. All of it.” 

“Maybe,” Ryan allows. “But you get that we–that he–couldn’t risk it, right?” 

“Yeah.” Taylor gets it. He doesn’t like it, though. If they had–if Jordan had told him, he would have been cool. Probably. No, he would have, Taylor decides. he’d have been cool, and he’d definitely have punched anyone who gave either of them shit. And he’d have been cool about them hooking up, too. Like, not in the same room as him or anything, but–but if they’d come back looking all messy and with each other’s marks on them; if maybe Taylor had come over too early and caught them making out–maybe Jordan on Ryan’s lap, Ryan’s hand in his hair, Jordan maybe shirtless and squirming. 

Maybe they do that now, still–maybe they were planning to go back to one of their hotel rooms after this, if Taylor didn’t show up. Maybe they’d get a little tipsy, then the door would close and Jordan would kiss Ryan against the wall, going up onto his tiptoes just a little, until Ryan was messy and moaning, all his composure broken. Maybe they’d still. 

Taylor, he notices almost idly, is suddenly very hot. Which is. Huh. 

“Are you guys asleep?” Jordan asks, stepping over Taylor to get back to his seat. He plucks the whiskey bottle out of Ryan’s hands as he does. “Come on, we aren’t that old.” 

“I bet your students think you are,” Taylor throws back at him, and Jordan laughs. He looks–lighter. Like telling Taylor lifted something from him. 

“You have no idea. I have these two–” he starts to tell the story of his kids, high schoolers at a school in Toronto, if Taylor judges right, and the mischief they think they can pull. The kids clearly adore Ebs, though, and he does right back. He’s–settled now. It’s a good look on him. 

Taylor glances over at Ryan, who’s watching Jordan talk. He looks good too. And he’s looking at Jordan like–like he always used to. Which Taylor gets, now. 

“Hey, I’m going to be in Toronto, in a few weeks,” he says, out of nowhere. 

Jordan laughs. “Yeah, I know. I can look at the NHL app.” 

“No, I mean. We could catch up then. Hang out.” He grabs the bottle back from Jordan. “If you guys wanted.” 

Jordan glances at Ryan; Ryan looks back, then at Taylor, always a little more suspicious. Maybe protective, Taylor thinks. But he doesn’t want to accidentally break more hearts. 

Then Jordan nudges Ryan. “Only if we get good tickets to the game, eh?” he says, and Ryan breaks and laughs. 

“Yeah, rinkside or we’re going out with the Leafs after instead.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Taylor warns, and that sets them off laughing again. Taylor looks at them, grinning and bright on the bleachers above him; how Jordan’s foot is pressed against Ryan’s calf, and his stomach flips. Warms. 

Oh.  _Oh._


	63. Sid/Geno: We hooked up randomly at a party once and it turns out you’re friends with my brother AU & Helped you pick out clothes to wear on a date with someone else AU

“Hey, Kris,” Sid says, knocking on the door as he pushes it open. If Kris’s doing shit, he should have locked the door.  “Can you–” He stops when he sees who’s sitting on the bed. “Hi, Geno.” 

“Hi, Sid.” Geno raises a hand to wave. Sid looks at him for a second–he is, as always, irritatingly attractive in ways that Sid doesn’t let himself think about–then shakes his head. “Tanger go out to get beer for tournament, be back soon.” 

“How soon?” Geno shrugs. Sid rolls his eyes. Of course his billet brother’s friend would have a similarly flexible relationships with time. “Like, get back in five minutes, or in an hour?” 

“Not sure, he’s leave ten minutes ago?” Geno at least makes an apologetic face. 

Sid groans. Of course Kris isn’t here when he needs him. “Fuck.” 

Geno looks a little worried at that. “Why? Something wrong?” 

“No, I just. Need to talk to him.” 

Geno’s eyebrows have drawn together, and he’s standing up, looking legitimately concerned. “What’s wrong? Maybe I can help?” 

“It’s nothing.” Nothing Sid’s admitting to anyone, anyway. 

Geno crosses his arms, looking stubborn. He might not be Sid’s friend, particularly–he and Kris are friends because they’re apparently fun and cool and shit, and Sid is none of those things so he doesn’t hang out with them often. But Sid does know what Geno looks like when he looks stubborn. 

He also knows that he can out-stubborn him, based on any number of video game tournaments. And also the thing they don’t talk about. But that doesn’t mean that he’s has time to. 

“How do I look?” Sid opens up his arms. Geno’s face does a lot of complicated things, all at once.

“Um, good?“ His cheeks are a little red, and he’s counter-productively just staring at Sid’s face. “You know I think–”

“Because,” Sid goes on, before he can finish that sentence and put them back in the realm of the thing they don’t talk about, “I have a date tonight. And I was hoping Kris could help me pick out an outfit.” 

Geno’s face does a lot more complicated things. “A date,” he echoes. He’s not looking at Sid’s face anymore–now he’s looking at his lap. “With who?” 

“Cal? From the rink?” Sid shrugs. “I don’t know if you know him, he works the food stand–”

“I know. Know he has crush on you, too. I’m just not know he ask you out.” 

“Well, he did.” Sid drums his own fingers against his jeans, oddly defensive. He’s allowed to go on a date. He knows the jokes people make, about being hockey-sexual or whatever, but he can date people. He can have sex with people. Which Geno very well knows, even if they don’t talk about it. 

“And you say yes,” Geno says, a statement not a question. Sid opens his mouth to reply to  _that_ , but before he can, Geno’s jumping to his feet. “Is okay, I’m here to help. Make sure you looked hottest for date.” 

“No, that’s really okay–” Sid starts, but Geno’s herding him back, out of Kris’s room, towards his own. “I just wanted to know if this was okay, I don’t need–” 

“Yes, you do,” Geno informs him. “This fine, but boring. Need something more interesting.” 

“I really don’t think I do.” Sid looks down at himself. He’s wearing jeans and a dark button down shirt. He thinks he looks fine. “Also, if we’re judging interesting by your clothes…” 

“You just wish you can pull off,” Geno retorts. Sid gives him his most skeptical look, because he really, really does not. “Fine, but at least my clothes fun.” 

“Clothes aren’t supposed to be fun,” Sid mutters, but there’s no harm in letting Geno try, at least. He sits down on his bed to watch as Geno goes over to Sid’s closet to start fussing through it. It’s no different than what Kris would have done, if he were here, Sid justifies. It has nothing to do with having an excuse to watch Geno without it being weird. 

Sid rejects one outfit Geno suggests because the shirt doesn’t fit–”Is whole point!” Geno counters, licking his lips and not quite able to look away from Sid’s chest–and another because he refuses to wear anything neon on a date– “Boring.” 

“I think this is fine,” Sid says, when Geno seems to be slowing down and is just muttering discontentedly to himself. 

“No. Have to find most impressive thing, be sure to make him fall in love with you.” Geno’s half in Sid’s closet, so his voice is muffled. 

“In love?” Sid asks. “We’re just going on a date.” 

“In love,” Geno repeats, firmly. “Because you don’t date, so if you do, must be because he’s really special. Because you want him be in love with you.” 

“Um.” Sid–doesn’t. Sid doesn’t really know Cal, other than he’s cute and asked Sid out, and Sid was feeling a little weird about how serious Kris and Cath were getting and so he’d said yes. “I mean, I like him?” 

“Like?” Geno pulls himself out of the closet. Sid yanks his gaze up from Geno’s ass, guiltily. It’s a lot easier to focus when Geno’s glowering at him, anyway. “Just like?” 

“He seems cool? 

“So you just like him, and go out with him, but when I’m ask–” Geno cuts himself off, his eyes wide like he didn’t mean to say it. 

But he did. He did say it, even though they don’t talk about it–don’t talk about getting drunk at a party Kris had dragged Sid to, about how much fun it had been, about how somehow they’d ended up together in some bedroom pawing inelegantly at each other. About how it hadn’t occurred to Sid until after, in the warm light of day and his hangover, that Geno was one of Kris’s best friends–Kris, who was notoriously possessive of his friends and his billet brother, and who really would punch someone–and that Geno was on the team and Sid couldn’t mess that up for just a hook up, no matter how cute and funny and into hockey Geno was. 

But that was different. Geno hadn’t asked anything, when he came over the next day, he’d just mumbled something and hadn’t looked Sid in the eye at all and then started nodding when Sid explained his thoughts. 

“That’s different,” Sid says. If they’re talking about it, he can say that. 

Geno’s eyes are dark when he looks at Sid. “Why? I’m hotter than Cal.” 

He’s not wrong. “Because–you’re on the team. And you’re Kris’s friend.” Geno mutters something in Russian that definitely includes Kris’s name, and sounds like the sort of thing someone who doesn’t live with him would say. “And,” Sid goes on, “it’d be complicated and it could mess up the team and–and you didn’t ask!” Sid ends, on more of a whine than he’d like. 

“Yes, because you start saying date is bad idea immediately, and I’m think you not want to date, and is fine.” Geno’s still all thunderclouds and scowls and hot eyes. Sid shifts on the bed. “Not you not want to date me for stupid reasons.” 

“They aren’t stupid, they’re–” 

“Give me good reason not to date me,” Geno demands. He steps closer, looming a little. God, Sid’s into him looming. 

Sid has a lot of good reasons. But– “Because you never said you wanted to?” seems to be the best one. “Like, there’s a big difference between a drunk hook up and going out, and–” 

“Sorry for shy!” Geno throws back. “Sorry you–Sidney Crosby, and I’m not think you’re interested and not want to push!” 

“But you are interested.” Sid has a lot of reasons it’s a bad idea. But–if the team is okay, if Kris can get over it… He just likes Geno, and from what he can remember of hooking up it was really good, and there’s something addicting in how Geno’s looking at him now. “In more than just hooking up?” 

Geno makes a low, frustrated noise, then he uncrosses his arms, takes a step forward, and cups Sid’s face. It’s a lead up to a hard, angry kiss–except Geno pauses before he does anything, his thumb running across Sid’s cheek. “Yes?” he asks, quiet. Hopeful. 

Sid shivers. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows that this would be complicated, whatever Geno says or thinks. Knows that he has a date with another guy in half an hour. 

And yet– “Yes,” he says, and kisses Geno. 

Sid barely remembers what it was like, that night at the party–they’d been drunk and laughing and sloppy and desperate, and if there was kissing it probably hadn’t been very good. But Sid feels this kiss down to his toes, from Geno’s lips and tongue and teeth and his hands so big on Sid’s face and Geno’s body when Sid presses closer, wanting more. 

Then– “Hey, Geno! Beer’s here!” comes Kris’s yell from downstairs, and they break apart, panting. Geno’s lips are swollen, a little, and his eyes are dark and wide as he stare at Sid, his hands still on Sid’s skin.

“Kris is back,” Sid says, because he feels like he needs to say something. Geno nods. “I can. Um. I can cancel my date.” 

“Hey, G! Where are you? Sid, have you seen G?” Kris calls. His footsteps are nearing, coming up the stairs. 

“No,” Geno murmurs, a low and hot rumble that vibrates through Sid, “No, you go on date. Go on date, and think about this.” He tugs Sid in, kisses him again, hard this time, dirty enough that it makes Sid want to ignore him, say screw it and screw everyone else and tug him down onto Sid’s bed. Then Geno’s gone, a breath away. “Then you come back.” 

“Yeah,” Sid breathes, still dazed. Then what Geno says catches up to him. “Wait, no, G, that’s bullshit, I’ll cancel–” 

“Up here!” Geno calls, letting go of Sid and smirking evilly. “I’m help Sid get ready for date.” 

“You have a date?” Kris sticks his head in the door. “Since when? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

 _I’m going to kill you_ , Sid mouths at Geno, who shrugs, his innocent face fooling no one. “Since a few days ago, and because I knew you’d make a deal about it.” 

“Of course I would! A date. Sid the Kid, all grown up.” Kris wipes away a tear, then flicks his gaze over Sid. “You’re wearing that?” 

“That’s what I say!” Geno declares as Sid snaps, 

“What’s wrong with this?” 

“It’s okay, I’ll find you something better,” Kris decides, and pushes past Geno to go to Sid’s closet. 

“Yeah, Sid,” Geno agrees, from behind Kris. “We find you someone better for date.” 

“Something,” Kris corrects idly, still pawing through Sid’s closet. 

“Yes, something,” Geno agrees, smirking smugly at Sid. Sid glares, then sits back down on the bed. His lips are still tingling. 


	64. Mitch/Auston: brand new neighbors au

“Um, Mitchy, what are you doing?” 

“What do you mean.” Mitch is, maybe, craning his neck around so he can see out the window to the doorway of the apartment building–specifically, the doorway where someone is currently exiting the building. 

From the other side of the Facetime call, Dylan blinks at him. “You’re sitting really weird.” 

“I am not.” 

“Yeah you are.” Dylan, who knows him too well, raises his eyebrows. “What’s up?” 

Mitch takes one more look out the window–no movement, even though it’s basically dusk–and leans forward. “It’s my new neighbor.” 

“Oh?” Dylan doesn’t sound very interested. “Are they loud?” 

“No, I haven’t heard anything.” 

“Hot?” 

“Yes, but that’s not the point?” 

“Do they like, smoke a lot of weed?” 

“No? Not that I can smell.” 

Dylan shrugs. “Then I’ve got nothing, bro. What’s up with them?” 

“My new neighbor,” Mitch announces, with the drama proper for the moment. “Is a vampire.” 

For a second, Dylan stares at him. Then he starts to laugh. 

“I’m serious!” Mitch whines. “I only see him at night–” 

“Maybe because you work during the day?” 

“And he seems really chill and cool and like, aloof–” 

“Everyone is cool compared to you.” 

“And he’s really hot–” 

“Now we’re getting to it–” 

“And he wears turtlenecks, Stromer.  _Turtlenecks_.” Mitch throws up his hands. “And he looks good in them! He has to be a vampire.” 

“I think you have to update your definition of ‘has to,’” Dylan counters. He’s definitely laughing at Mitch. But he doesn’t get it. A vampire didn’t move in next door to him. A vampire with like, ridiculous thighs and a kind of intense, brooding stare and an American accent that somehow manages not to sound irritating, but, like. Still a vampire. 

“He is,” Mitch insists. “I’ll prove it.” 

Dylan grins. “I can’t wait.” 

* * *

This is what Mitch knows about his new neighbor: he is tall and built and wears clothes that Mitch is pretty sure are like, actually fashionable. He only ever appears at night. He’s American. He barely reacts if Mitch ever talks to him when they’re both getting their mail, though he’s never actively impolite. His last name is Matthews and his first name starts with A, going by the mailbox. 

It all, Mitch decides, definitely lines up to vampire. But now he has to prove it, so he goes out and gets some garlic and Amazon Primes some holy water and a cross, because he’s watched Buffy he knows how this goes. 

Then he goes across the hall and knocks. 

It takes a couple minutes, but then the door opens, and the new neighbor is there. Fuck, he’s hot, Mitch realizes again. Oh well. He is a man with a plan. 

“Hey,” he says, grinning before the other man can get a word in edgewise. “I live next door.” 

“I know,” the other man says. It’s again not curt, but it’s not giving Mitch a lot back. 

“Well, I wanted to see if you wanted to come over for dinner,” Mitch goes on, undaunted. “As a welcome to the building thing.” 

“Oh.” The guy pauses, glances up and down at Mitch. “Yeah, um. That’s be cool.” 

“Awesome.” Mitch grins, and waits. It takes a second, but, 

“Oh, now?” 

“I mean, it is dinner time,” Mitch points out. The guy looks at his watch. Mitch knows he usually leaves the building a few hours later than this, so he doesn’t have any excuses. 

“Okay. Just, um. Give me a sec?” he asks, and Mitch nods a second before the door closes. 

Mitch taps his toe against the floor. Maybe this is a bad idea, inviting a vampire over for dinner, but Mitch is armed and shit and the dude never seemed threatening. If he dies, Dylan will at least know that Mitch was right. 

The door opens again only a few moments later, though, and the guy comes out. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, but his hair is neater than it was. Mitch has never seen him in clothes like this–casual. Like he could just be one of Mitch’s bros. It’s not a vampire look, for sure. Even if it’s still a good one. 

“Okay, I’m ready, I guess,” he announces. 

“Great. I’m just down here.” Mitch gestures to his door. “I’m Mitch, by the way, I don’t think we’ve ever said.” 

“Auston.” Auston holds out a hand to shake, so Mitch does. It is big and warm and strong. Maybe he just fed, and that’s why it’s warm. 

“So this is me,” Mitch announces, and opens the door. He very carefully doesn’t ask Auston in, and Auston pauses in the doorway, shifting on his feet, as Mitch goes in. 

He waits a beat, two. Then it starts getting really awkward, so, “Come on in,” Mitch invites, and Auston’s shoulders relax and he steps in, looking around curiously. There’s not much to see–it’s probably about the same as Auston’s apartment, and Mitch isn’t exactly a home decorator. He has some pictures of his friends up, some art his mom picked out, but that’s about it. Auston’s apartment is probably really well decorated, with like, real art. That’s what vampires do. 

“So come on in, make yourself at home. Do you want anything to drink?” Mitch asks, heading to the kitchen. He pulls out his phone as he goes, texts Dylan a quick,  _ddnt come inside until i asked him!_

“Some water, if it’s okay.” 

“I think I can find some.” Mitch tells Auston. Auston’s lips twitch a little, like he’s trying not to smile. It’s the kind of thing Mitch would usually take as a challenge, if he weren’t already in the middle of one. He grabs two glasses, gets some water from the sink. 

While he’s doing that, Dylan texts back. 

_maybe he’s just polite._

_Wait are you on a date with a vampire?_

“So,” Mitch says, ignoring his useless best friend. “Where’d you move from? What brings you to the best city in the world?” 

“Phoenix–Arizona,” Auston tells him. “That’s where i moved from. And is Toronto really the best city?” 

“Fuck yes,” Mitch informs him, and then he gets distracted by listing off everything that’s great about the city to defend it, as Auston listens. He doesn’t look, like, annoyed at Mitch’s ramblings, which would make him the only person in the world. 

Because he is a somewhat competent human being, Mitch at least manages to start cooking as he talks. He throws on some pasta, then very obviously brings out a clove of garlic to mince. Auston doesn’t react. Maybe he’s built up an immunity. 

“Why are you here, anyway, if you don’t think it’s the best city?” 

“I’m a fashion designer,” Auston says, his chin jutting out like he’s daring Mitch to say something bad about it. 

“Oh, awesome. That’s why you always look so cool,” Mitch says instead, because he does. 

That gets another one of his slow blinks. “Um, thanks. I mean, it’s still–I got an internship a few days a week, but mostly I’m doing my own sketches and working as a night guard, so not very glamorous.” Even that’s like a dare, like he’s throwing it out there and challenging Mitch to fight him over it. 

Mitch would like to see the person who’s going to fight this guy. But it’s–well, he obviously cares a lot about it, if he’s that prickly. 

“Dude, I feel you. I’m doing the internship circuit too, and like, I really should be living at home, but I just couldn’t any more, you know? Time to spread my wings and fly.” Mitch makes a little flapping motion, which gets him another one of those lip twitches.  

“Yeah. I miss home, but it’s nice to be away,” Auston admits. “I super miss my mom’s cooking, though.” 

“I go home for dinner like, four times a week,” Mitch admits, and that gets something that’s almost a real smile, but is also a little wistful. He’s like an entire country away from home–maybe centuries away from home, who knows. Mitch’s barely ever lived a town away. “I’ll bring you leftovers sometime, it’ll be sort of the same.” 

“No it won’t. But thanks.” Auston looks down at his hands on those last words, but Mitch catches a hint of something soft on his face. 

Anyway, dinner is ready, so Mitch dishes up the pasta with pesto–heavy on the garlic–and takes Auston’s cup to refill it. This time, he takes out the bottle of holy water he bought from the fridge, pours it in. Auston either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, it’s kind of hard to tell. 

“Eat up!” Mitch tells him, sitting down at the counter next to him. He watches intently. It’s true Auston hadn’t asked for blood or anything, but this is the real test. 

Auston’s eyebrows go up a little as he takes a bite. “Wow, you’re a big fan of garlic, huh?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Mitch says, even though honestly he kind of isn’t. He might have to make himself another dinner to make up for it. “Is that a problem?”  

“No, I love it. Everyone here makes things too bland.” Auston takes another big bite. Then he takes a sip of water, and there are no flames, at all. 

Maybe Buffy is wrong. Mitch might have to go watch Dracula, see if he can get anything else from that. 

Mitch takes a bite of his own pasta. It really is garlicy. 

They eat for silence in a little bit, but Mitch catches Auston glancing at him every once in a while. Mitch tries not to look delicious. 

Auston finishes his whole plate, then he sits back. His face is blank again. “There’s something else,” he says, slowly. “That you should know.” 

Holy fuck, is he just going to tell Mitch he’s a vampire? That’d be sick. 

“Oh?” Mitch sits up and tries to come off as trustworthy. 

“I’m gay.” 

“Oh.” Mitch realizes a beat too late that he probably sounds disappointed, given how Auston’s already blank face somehow goes even blanker. “No, dude, that’s totally cool, I mean, me too, well, sort of–like, bi, but–yeah. No, it’s cool. Why so aggro, though?” 

Auston’s face relaxes a little, and he jerks his head to the cross sitting on the counter. It doesn’t seem to bother him to be so close to it. 

Except for how it obviously made Auston think he was some nutjob, which vampire or not, Mitch isn’t going to stand for. “Oh! Oh, no, that’s not–I mean, if you’re religious, fine, but like, I’m not really. I just got that, it was just a detection tool, to keep vampires away, you know?” 

“Vampires?” Auston blinks again, then again. He looks at the plate, then at Mitch. “Were you trying to figure out if I was a vampire?” he asks, all incredulous drawl. 

“You’re really suspicious!” Mitch protests, and Auston breaks out laughing–like really, honestly cracks up, almost falling off his stool laughing, all that cool, calmness broken. Mitch glares while he does, but he can’t keep that up for long until he starts laughing too, until they’re both just laughing like idiots in Mitch’s kitchen. 

“I’m not,” Auston says at last, when he can speak again. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a sparkle in his dark eyes. He looks the farthest thing from undead, now that his cool has been broken. “For the record, I am not a vampire.” 

“That’s just what a vampire would say,” Mitch tells him, but he doesn’t stop smiling. 

“Here.” Auston reaches over, picks up the cross. “Happy?” 

“I mean, that I’m not going to get eaten, kind of.” Auston’s lips do that twitching thing again, like there’s a joke Mitch isn’t in on. “It would have been kind of sick to have a vampire friend, though.” 

Auston swallows. “How about a human one?” He’s clearly trying to be cool again, but it’s not quite working. 

“I guess that’ll do,” Mitch allows, and a smile breaks through Auston’s face, a little shy and pleased, and he looks away again like he doesn’t want Mitch to see it. Mitch wants him to let Mitch see that smile, and his laughter, and the shyness, and all the things he’s hiding underneath this veneer of cool he put on so well that it fooled Mitch. 

Shit, Mitch thinks, looking away too. That’s so much scarier than a vampire. 


	65. Tyson/Gabe: New Year's Kiss

“What are you up to tonight?” Gabe looks up from where he’s sitting at his stall–Tyson looks as beat as he does, though the suit hides some of the post-game exhaustion. “For New Years, Landesnerd,” Tyson clarifies, at Gabe’s blank face. 

Gabe shrugs. “Nothing, probably. Zoey and me on the couch.” The curse of the game on New Year’s Eve–no one has energy to go to a party afterwards, or no one over the age of 25, at least; Gabe thought he’d heard Josty and JT talking about a party they wanted to hit up. “What about you?”

“Nate and me on the couch.” 

“Too old for parties?” Gabe teases, and Tyson scoffs. 

“Hey, Mac and I are going to be rocking and rolling, don’t you worry.”

“So, Hallmark movies?” 

“Nah, we’re going classy. Shaken, not stirred for us.” Gabe laughs, because as always–Tyson is just so himself, and Gabe will never not enjoy that, however ridiculous it is. “Um, so,” Tyson goes on, his voice quieter now. Unsure, like Gabe’s only heard it around the mediation, or sometimes when his dad comes into town. “If we aren’t going to see each other tonight…” 

“Yeah?” Gabe tries to soften his voice too. Whatever’s making Tyson unsure like that, he wants to chase it away–or at least, he wants Tyson to talk to him about it, like he sometimes does, the quiet confidences they don’t talk about in the light of day. 

“Just. It’s. Happy New Year’s, Gabe,” Tyson says, all in a rush, then he leans down and kisses Gabe. It’s just a press of their lips–Gabe’s too shocked for it to be any more, and by the time he realizes what’s happening Tyson’s sprung back like he’s been burned, his face bright red. “So I’ll see you losers in 2019!” he yells, so suddenly everyone’s looking at them and yelling back at him, and Gabe can only watch him as he power walks out of the locker room. 

Gabe resists the urge to touch his lips, but he does lick them, still staring at the door. He hadn’t thought–well, he had, but he hadn’t  _thought_ –Zoey could probably use some more company than just him on the couch tonight, he thinks. And he wants a proper New Year’s Kiss replay of that. 


	66. Tyler/Jamie: awkwardly walking in in someone crying AU

Jamie pauses outside the bathroom. He can hear…something. A noise that doesn’t sound like any usual bathroom deal and doesn’t sound like sex, which are sort of the two things Jamie expects to be happening the bathroom at a house party. 

“Um.” He knocks. “Everything okay in there?” 

There’s a sound, then the door opens, and Jamie pulls up short. He doesn’t know what he thinks he expected, but it wasn’t a red-eyed Tyler Seguin, clearly a little drunk and also sniffling a little. 

“I thought it was you,” he tells Jamie, like that’s something they say, and then grabs Jamie’s shirt and tugs. Jamie’s too surprised to do anything but stumble into the bathroom after him. 

He and Tyler Seguin–they know each other, but not like this. They sort of…rotate around the same friend group. Or more accurately, Tyler sometimes flits into Jamie’s friends, because he and Jason know each other somehow, and he hangs around and laughs and lights everything up and then he flits away to some of his many other friends. So Jamie knows him–knows he’s too hot and Jamie always feel like he’s tripping over his tongue with him and knows, too, that there’s maybe more to him than he likes to show, though that last one’s just a sense. He wasn’t really aware Tyler knew more than his name. Tyler is definitely too cool to know more than his name. Jamie knows that’s a high school way to think, but it’s still true. 

But now Tyler’s red-eyed from crying and he’s tugged Jamie into a bathroom that’s barely big enough for the two of them and he’s closing the door, and, well, Jamie’s only human. His mind goes one place. 

“Is everything okay?” he repeats. It seems like a safe thing to ask. 

“Yeah.” Tyler nods. He grabs his phone, and Jamie has a sudden thought–maybe he’s just been broken up with and Jamie’s here for some sort of rebound fuck? He hadn’t know Tyler was dating someone but he wouldn’t–but then Tyler shoves his phone into Jamie’s face, and Jamie can see what’s on it. 

It’s a Instagram video. Of a dog. 

A very cute dog, admittedly, and one who looks like he’s saving a baby or something. But it’s definitely a video of a dog. “Um.” 

“He’s such a good boy!” Tyler says, and it comes out on a bit of a sob. “Look at him, he’s such a good boy.” 

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Also, it is pretty moving. “He is.” 

“So good,” Tyler repeats, and sort of–collapses onto Jamie. He’s heavy enough that Jamie has to brace to catch him and not fall, but he manages it. Tyler smells like beer and some sort of spicy cologne and sweat, and Jamie tries not to notice that he actually sort of likes it. “I knew you’d understand.” 

“Yeah?” Jamie chuckles, endeared despite himself. “And how do you know that? We don’t, like, know each other.” 

Tyler tilts his head up. His gaze is a little bleary, but somehow very focused. “Sure we do.” 

“This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, I think?” 

“But you don’t talk at a lot to anyone,” Tyler informs him, like Jamie didn’t know. “And that’s, like fine. You’re quiet. I talk a lot, but that probably evens out.” His lips curve. “And I see you watching me.” 

“Oh.” Jamie goes red. He knows he’s not a subtle person, but he’d hoped he wasn’t, like, intrusive in the way Tyler always draws his eye. “I’m–” 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Tyler interrupts. “I like it.” His tongue flicks out, wets his lips. Jamie gulps. “I like it a lot.” 

“You do?” Jamie gets out. Ten minutes ago, if you’d told him he’d be in a bathroom holding up a drunk, red-eyed Tyler Seguin and listening to him tell Jamie that he liked Jamie watching him, he’d have assumed you’d gotten into whatever uppers were being passed around downstairs. 

“Uh-huh.” Tyler nods. It rubs his cheek against Jamie’s shoulder. “You should do it more. I’m always looking back.” 

“You are?” Jamie repeats. 

“Uh-huh,” Tyler says again, smiling. His eyes are hot, though, and he’s somehow managed to turn so it feels like his whole body is pressed against Jamie; like Jamie’s pinned in place. “I like to look at you too. You’re so–big.” He says it with an air of awe. “And you’re always responsible even when you don’t have to be. Like now. And you get my dog videos.” He pauses, then his eyes widen. “Wait, you have to see more!” 

He lets go of Jamie, swipes clumsily at his phone. “Here.” He pats at the sink next to him. When Jamie hesitates, he pats it again, more insistently. “Come here,” He repeats, and Jamie does. Tyler immediately leans against him again, angling his phone so they can both see the screen. It’s a different dog this time, guarding some kittens from a dump truck. “Look at him!” Tyler says again, and he’s started to sniffle, mood swings so fast Jamie can barely track them. “Such a good boy.” 

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees. Feeling very daring, he rests his head on top of Tyler’s. Tyler doesn’t move away. “He is.”

* * *

Jamie wakes up not hungover and remembering a little too clearly how he spent his night. He’d sort of like to forget that he spent the second half of the night cuddled up with Tyler Seguin, watching dog video after dog video as Tyler sniffled excitedly into his shoulder, until things downstairs were winding down and one of Tyler’s other friends came to find him. He’d rolled his eyes fondly at Tyler, like he did this all the time, and then apologized to Jamie and said he’d take it from here, and Jamie had seen him with the friend before and hadn’t had any reason not to trust him, so he’d let him go. 

And that would probably be that, he tells himself, as he gets up and grabs a pre-workout protein bar. Tyler wouldn’t remember, or he’d write it off as something he did all the time, and Jamie would be even more awkward around him next time he came by because he’d keep hearing Tyler saying ‘I like it’ on repeat even though he probably didn’t mean it sober. 

By the time he’s finished his workout, he’s settled on that; by the time he’s done with his shower it’s 100% certain. Jamie’s lived his life knowing what he can fight for and what he can’t, and keeping the two separate, and this is firmly in the second category. 

So he’s definitely not expecting it when his phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number as he finishes his shake. 

 _Hey, it’s Tyler. Seguin_ , the preview text says, and Jamie fumbles to open his phone to read the rest of it.  _So I think I cornered you last night and made you watch dog videos?_

So he remembers that much. That’s fine; Jamie’s cool with being friends. He does thinks Tyler’s a cool guy, apart from everything else.  _Yeah_ , he replies.  _No problem. you get home ok?_

 _Yeah, Brownie’s got it down to a science_ , Tyler sends. Then there are three dots, and Jamie doesn’t know what to say anyway, so he waits until Tyler sends his next message.  _I also think that I said some things about how you should take me home and fuck me sober enough to talk properly._

Jamie almost chokes. He somehow gets the wherewithal to reply,  _no, you didn’t say that._

 _Guess I must have just thought it, then_ , Tyler shoots back, almost immediately. Jamie blinks. He–has no idea how to respond to it. Tyler’s shifting categories and he’s not made for that. 

He’s still hesitating when another message pops up–a video that, when Jamie plays it, is of three labs pressing at a man’s legs and barking excitedly, and laughter Jamie knows is Tyler’s behind it, the camera shaking.  _These are my good boys_ , Tyler tells him.  _Want to come meet them for lunch?_

Jamie has no real idea what’s happening, but when he thinks he can get a thing, he doesn’t stop fighting for it. And the dogs are cute. So is the man. 

 _Yes_ , he sends back. And maybe starts googling where he can buy dog treats on short notice. 


	67. Sid/Geno: cop/person getting a speeding ticket au

Sid doesn’t like to say it, but being a uniform is generally kind of boring. Sometimes it’s interesting–he enjoys a good chase as much as anyone–but when it’s traffic duty, well. He’s got two weeks left as a uniform before he starts work as a detective, and he’s very happy. 

But for now, he’s on traffic duty, and it’s boring but it has to be done. So Sid sits in the patrol car and watches the cars go by. Until–the radar kicks in, and that’s someone going 55 in a 30 zone. He guns on the engine, flicks on the lights and the siren, and goes. 

It’s a bright red sports car, unsurprising, but–maybe more surprising–it slows down as soon as Sid gets behind it, doesn’t try to outrun him or anything. It just pulls over, and so Sid pulls over behind him, gets out. There’s no reason to expect any particular threat, so he doesn’t delay or anything walking over–until he hears the faint screaming. 

The man in the driver’s seat is about his age, with a big nose and deep set eyes that are currently looking a little panicky. Sid isn’t sure if it’s because he just got pulled over, or because of the wailing child in the backseat. 

“Everyone okay here?” he asks mildly. 

“Yes, is–” the man hisses something to the girl in another language–Russian, if Sid had to guess. She doesn’t stop crying “Fine, officer,” he finishes. 

“You were going 55 in a 30 mile per hour zone,” Sid points out. He looks back at the girl again. She doesn’t look particularly like the man. 

“Yes, I know, I–” the man shakes his head. His fingers drum on the wheel. “It Masha, she just start crying, say her tummy hurt, but not say why, not stop crying, Sergei not pick up, I think go to hospital–” 

The kid is still sobbing. The guy doesn’t look far from it, and Sid’s inclined to trust him, but–

“Can you roll down the back window, please?” Sid asks. The guy’s eyes are definitely wild around the eyes, but he does. Sid leans in. The girl doesn’t notice, just keeps sobbing. “Hey–hey,” Sid says again, loudly. The sobs get a little quieter, but she’s looking at Sid now, at least. “Hey, can you tell me who that is?” 

She snaps something in Russian. Sid sighs. “Does she know English?” he asks the man. The man nods.

“Yes, but–is young, not first language. Masha–” 

“Please don’t,” Sid interrupts. “Masha, right?” he asks, gentle but firm as he can, like when a kid’s throwing a tantrum during practice. She quiets more, looks at him. “Masha, can you tell me who this man is?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Is Zhenya,” she says, distracted from what’s wrong by her scorn. 

The man–Zhenya–grabs his phone from the cupholder next to him. “Is–nickname, for Evgeni. Evgeni Malkin, is me. I’m not steal, I’m friend of her papa, I take care when he travel–” he fumbles opens a photo. It is, indeed, of Evgeni, Masha, and a man who looks a lot like Masha. 

“Okay.” Sid relaxes. That would have been a different level of crisis. “Okay then,” he says again, and studies the situation–the crying child, the panicked man.

“Do you mind if I open the backdoor?” he asks Evgeni. “I know some basic first aid, I can see what’s wrong with her.” 

“Yes, is–yes,” Evgeni stammers, and unlocks the door. Sid carefully opens the back door. 

“Hi,” he tells Masha. “I’m Sid.” 

She quiets to keep eying him suspiciously, still whimpering. “I’m Masha,” she tells him. 

“That’s a pretty name,” Sid tells her. “So I hear you’re hurting?” 

She nods. “Lots,” she says, emphatically, in the tone of someone who cries wolf a lot. 

“Can you point to where?” Sid asks. It’s been a while since he took his EMT class, but he still knows enough. 

She gestures at her stomach, more to the right. “Hm, so, here?” Sid gestures at her nose. She shakes her head. “Here?” he gestures to toes. She shakes her head again, giggling a little. “Do you feel like you’re gonna puke?” 

A nod, this time. Sid nods too, staying calm. “Well, for right now, I have this.” He digs in his pocket, comes up with one of the Snickers bars he uses to keep himself awake on long shifts. “Think you can keep it a secret from Zhenya?” 

She nods excitedly. Sid smiles at her, hands it over. Then he takes a step back, and looks at Evgeni, who’s gaping at him a little. He braces himself on the top of the car, leans in. “Hospital is definitely the right idea,” he says quietly, so Masha can’t hear him. “I think it might be appendicitis.” That gets him a blank look–clearly Evgeni’s English doesn’t include medical conditions. “Hospital,” Sid repeats. “Follow me, I’ll turn on the lights.

“You–lights?” Evgeni repeats, then he gets it, because he just looks–relieved. He glances back, and Sid whistles. “Nope, can’t look at her right now,” he says, winking at Masha. Her lips smeared brown with chocolate, she smiles. Kids are easy, Sid’s always thought. Nice and simple. 

He gives Evgeni a comforting look, though, to make sure he gets it–Evgeni glances in the mirror and his own lips twitch–then Sid pats the top of the car, and goes back to his own car. He flips on the lights, pulls out and waits for Evgeni to get behind him, then he goes. 

With everyone getting out of the way, it doesn’t take them long to get to the hospital. Sid knows better than to go to the emergency room, though; they’ll always be backed up. Instead, he pulls around back. In his mirror he can see Evgeni frowning, but he follows him around. 

As Sid thought, there are a couple ambulances back here, including– “Sid?” Dumo asks, hopping off the back of the ambulance he was hanging out on as Sid throws the car into park and gets out. “What’s up?”

Sid jerks his finger at the car behind him. “I think the girl in that car is having and appendicitis. She reported nausea and a pain in her belly. Can you help her out, get her in?” 

Dumo straightens immediately, going business-like. “You always bring us a good time,” he tells Sid, then jerks his head at Olli, who was sitting with him. “Sid brought us a live one.” 

“You can’t do our jobs too,” Olli points out. “You give people tickets, we save lives.” 

“Looks like I can, so,” Sid retorts, but he trails them over to the car. 

“These are my friends, Dumo and Olli,” Sid says, when Evgeni opens the door. He’s mainly talking to Masha, but he glances at Evgeni too, reassuring. “They’re going to help, okay?” 

Masha blinks, but nods. She’s clearly gone past tears now, just big red-rimmed eyes. 

“Hey, kiddo,” Dumo says, kneeling down. They work with sharp precision, for all their jokes; joking but gentle they get Masha out of the car and into the hospital with Evgeni trailing after them, after throwing another helpless look at Sid. Sid smiles encouragingly at him, shoos him away. 

He gives the door one last look, but then he sighs, and goes back to his position. 

* * *

After shifts Sid’s always a little at loose ends. He knows the guys make fun of him for his job being his life, but he’s never known how to be anything else. And anyway. It’s why he’s gotten where he’s gotten, why he’s getting the detective job so early and why he can already hear the rumors about him being groomed for a captaincy. 

But it also means that Sid could go home once his shift is over. But instead, he turns and goes to the hospital. He’s invested. It’s not a bad thing. 

Dumo and Olli are off shift, or at least not in the ambulance bay, so Sid goes around and goes inside, knocks on the nurse’s station door. “Hey.” 

“Sid!” Vero comes out in a flurry of clipboard and pink scrubs, dropping kisses on either cheek. “Hello, I never see you at work. What’s wrong? Is it–” she cuts off, her face going white with every cop’s wife’s worst nightmare, and Sid hurries to correct her. 

“No, Marc-Andre’s fine.” She relaxes again, a smile coming back over her face. “No, I just–a kid came in here earlier, Masha–I don’t know here last name, but she was with a family friend, Evgeni Malkin. I wanted to check on them.” 

Vero’s face has moved quickly from pale to relieved and now to gleeful. “Oh yes. Your little rescue act, Dumo told me all about it. Very chivalrous, Sid.” 

Sid rolls his eyes. He knew this was coming. “It’s my job.” 

“Yes, your job to rescue handsome men by being darling with their children,” she agrees. 

“Their friend’s children,” Sid corrects instinctively, and Vero laughs again. Sid is really not looking forward to the shit Flower’s going to be giving him tomorrow. “ _Vero_.” 

“ _Sid,”_  she echoes, still laughing. “You should have heard him, though. Talking about the police officer who made sure they were okay.” 

“He did?” Sid asks, despite himself. He can feel his ears going a little red. 

“He asked about you,” Vero tells him. “I didn’t tell him your name, of course, regulations, but he was asking.” 

“Oh.” Sid swallows. “Are they–is she okay? Can I check on them? I’d love to make sure.” 

“Yes, check,” she repeats, giggling. “They’re still here. I can’t tell you any more. Except that if you went down that hall–” she gestures– “You might see something that interests you.” 

Sid leans down to kiss her cheek. “Thank you.” 

“I expect flowers and to be best woman at your wedding,” she tells him. Sid raises his eyebrows. 

“Your husband won’t be happy to hear that,” he tells her, and heads down the hall as she laughs again. 

It’s a few rooms down, the door open–Sid can see Masha in the bed, asleep; Evgeni on the chair, a little slumped. Sid knocks gently. If he doesn’t wake up, Sid’s not going to push it, he decides. That’ll be fair. 

But Evgeni looks up, turns to him, and smiles. “Officer!” he grins, then glances at Masha. She stays asleep.

“She okay?” Sid asks. Evgeni nods. 

“Yes. Was–appendicitis,” he says, in a way like he memorized the shape of the english word. “But caught in time, is fine. She sleep now, Sergei on his way home.” 

“Good.” Her color’s definitely better. Sid smiles at her, then at Evgeni. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m okay. Very–panic, before. But now she safe, is just wait, for her papa and mama.” Evgeni smiles at Sid again, wry. Now that Sid’s not in the middle of dealing with the crisis, he can recognize some things. Like how tall Evgeni is, how there’s an animation to his face that makes him handsome. “Lots of drawing. She–here.” He picks up a sheet of construction paper on the table, hands it to Sid. Sid looks at it, sees the crayon-scrawled image of a car with a girl and a man in it, then another man in blue with brown squiggle hair. “She make this, for you.“

“Oh.” Sid’s hand tightens on it. “Oh. Well, tell her–thank you.”

“Will.” 

Sid glances at him. His gaze jerks back to Masha, like he was just looking somewhere else. “I didn’t actually think you were kidnapping her,” he says all at once. It’s not quite a lie. he didn’t wonder for long, after all. 

That gets a laugh though, something big and deep. “No, is good, you check. Keep kids safe, yes? Keep her safe. Rather you check than miss.” He grins at Sid. “Maybe we lucky, I speed, you catch.” 

“Don’t try it again,” Sid warns, and Evgeni smirks. 

“But how else I find you, if Masha make more pictures? Maybe Masha want say thank you herself.” 

Sid snorts despite himself. “I’m–uh, my name’s Sidney. And you could just call.” 

“I could?” Evgeni asks. “Not have number.” He looks very innocent, in a way that is clearly, charmingly bullshit. 

Sid chuckles. “We could fix that.” 

“Good,” Evgeni says, firm and earnest, and Sid grins. “Give me. Then I call, when I’m pull over again.” 

“Or you could not speed,” Sid suggests. Evgeni gives him a ‘don’t be stupid’ look. “I’m not getting you out of tickets.” 

Evgeni sighs again, looking put upon. “Then I’m have to call for other reasons.” 

“Yeah,” Sid agrees. Evgeni’s looking at him again, openly appreciative. it’s a nice feeling. “I guess you will.”


	68. Tyson/Gabe: exes meeting again after not speaking for years au

“Oh shit,” Tyson says, loudly, grabbing Colin’s arm. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” 

Colin looks down at Tyson’s sudden death grip on his forearm. Putting aside the fact that Tyson’s strong enough that it hurts, up until right now he’d thought Tyson was having a good time at this party. He’d been having a good time at the party–he likes house parties, like the easy, casual intimacy. Tyson likes house parties too, but Tyson likes all parties. 

“What’s up?” Colin asks. Tyson does not appear to have spilled his drink or injured himself, which is a minor miracle in itself. But his face is very white, in a way that makes Colin think this might actually be serious, not one of Tyson’s antics. “Are you okay?” 

“No.” Tyson takes a gulp of the brightly colored drink in his glass. “No, I’m–that.” He jerks his head across the room, at where a bunch of people are standing in conversation, including a tall blonde man. “That’s Gabe.” 

“Gabe?” Colin echoes. “Your Gabe?” 

Tyson’s face, always so expressive, twists. “Not  _my_ Gabe, but. That Gabe.” 

Colin manages to keep his mouth shut only by great effort of will. He wasn’t here for Gabe, but even though he met Tyson a good six months after Gabe broke up with Tyson and went back to Sweden, he still feels like he was there for the aftermath. At least Nate said it was the aftermath–Tyson’s reckless rebounding, his throwing himself into relationship after relationship like he was trying to prove something, the way his laugh went too loud and thin. Even now, two years later, there are still times when Tyson gets drunk and starts muttering things about how could he just leave like that, without even thinking about whether their relationship was worth staying for. 

Colin is probably staring. “I thought he was in Sweden?” he asks. 

“So did fucking I,” Tyson spits. He takes another drink. “Fuck, we can–I can’t do this, Willy, why the fuck is he here?” 

“We’ll leave,” Colin decides. If Tyson can’t do this, they’ll go home. 

Except then– “Tyson!” someone yells, and Tyson looks up to see who it is, and Colin can see Gabe jerk and turn too, and then he sees Gabe’s eyes widen as he sees Tyson. 

“Who was–” 

“He’s coming over,” Colin warns, cutting Tyson off. Tyson goes even paler. 

“Fuck, he–of course he fucking is. How’s my hair? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. I–” 

“Hi, Tyson.” Gabe’s voice is softer than Colin had expected, somehow. But he is just as handsome as Tyson said. Colin had always assumed Tyson was just exaggerating, as he tended to, when he waxed drunkenly on about him, but no, that was real. 

“Gabe.” Tyson nods. He’s clearly trying to sound dignified, but his voice is higher-pitched than normal. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“Yeah, well. It is EJ’s party, so–” 

“I meant in North America,” Tyson snaps, cutting him off. “How long are you visiting for? A quick fly by just to remind all of us mere mortals that you’re still more handsome than anyone else and that we can’t dream of reaching those heights?”

A smile flickers on Gabe’s lips. He’s still staring at Tyson, and Colin would be wondering about that look a lot more if Tyson’s knuckles weren’t worryingly white on his cup. “Um, actually. I’ve moved back.” 

Tyson actually rocks back on his heels. Colin reaches out to steady him–knowing Tyson he’d manage to injure himself here. Gabe’s eyes dart down to Colin’s hand on Tyson’s arm. Colin doesn’t move it–Tyson needs someone in his corner. 

“You’ve moved back?” Tyson echoes. He’s getting louder. “You just–you moved back?” 

“Yeah.” Gabe nods. He glances at Colin again. “Are you going to introduce me?” he asks, teasing, a little chiding. Colin knows his friend well enough to know it’s the kind of thing Tyson would be into, if it wasn’t from this man. Or maybe especially because it’s this man. 

Tyson must know it too, because he leans a little closer to Colin. “Yes. Colin, this is Gabe. Gabe, this is Colin.” Tyson glances up at Colin, and he has that look in his eyes–the reckless, self-deprecating thing he gets when he does something entirely stupid with himself, because Tyson is careful with everyone but himself. “My boyfriend.” 

Gabe visibly startles. Colin hopes he doesn’t too, looking back at Tyson–Tyson just  _looks_ at him. It is undeniably a horrible idea. But–Colin likes to think he’s a good friend, and Tyson in the right mood is impossible to say no too. Nate calls it a super power, sometimes. And Colin really doesn’t like how startled Gabe looks, like he hadn’t considered that Tyson might find someone else. 

And mostly–Tyson’s hurting. Colin doesn’t like his friends to hurt. So, 

“Hi,” he says, holding out the hand not on Tyson’s arm to Gabe. “Colin Wilson. Nice to meet you.”  

“Gabe Landeskog.” Gabe holds out a hand, shakes. It’s…definitely more forceful a shake than someone meeting at a party would need to give. “So how long has this been going on?” he asks. He doesn’t say it was nice to meet Colin, Colin can’t help but tell. 

“I–” Colin starts, trying to figure out a believable lie, but Tyson takes over. 

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he finishes, and defiantly leans against Colin’s shoulder. “You made it very clear that it wasn’t.” 

“Tys–” Gabe reaches out a hand, then stops it. Glances at Colin. “Tyson. That’s not what I–” 

“If you say anything along the lines of it wasn’t you, it was me, I’m going to start screaming,” Tyson warns. “I know that you like scenes, but you won’t like this one. You know how loudly I can scream.” 

Colin bites back his smile. Gabe’s face goes through a number of contortions between hurt and smiling. Tyson hears it, then shrugs and doesn’t react. 

Gabe lands on a weak smile. “Noted,” he says. He rocks onto his heels, then back. “I–it was good to see you, Tys. You’re looking good.” 

He says it earnestly, honestly. Tyson goes red, glances away. “Yes, you’re looking good too, you always somehow manage to look better, we know.” He’s hanging on to Colin for dear life now, and Colin wraps an arm around his shoulders. Gabe’s gaze narrows in on it. “Um. But you know, I’ve traded up with blonde bombshells, so.” 

Gabe’s offended face would be pretty funny in another circumstance. Colin would even feel flattered, in another circumstance. 

As it is, though, Gabe draws himself up. “Right,” he says, stiffly. “I, um. I’ll let you get back to it, then. You and your boyfriend.” He makes a motion at jerking his head in Colin’s direction, then gives Tyson a very different kind of smile, then backs away. 

As soon as he’s out of sight, Tyson slumps over. “Fuck,” he mutters into his hands. “Fuck, he fucking–he just came back? After giving up–fuck,” he says again, and lifts up his head. He’s biting hard at his lip. “I–thanks, bud. You’re a lifesaver, I know it’s such a move, but I couldn’t–you saw him, I needed something to win, and like, going out with you would be a winner move, so I made a play.” 

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t any skin off of Colin’s back. “But–do you want to leave?” 

“I don’t want him to drive me away,” Tyson retorts. “I–this is my friends’ party too. I should get to stay. I shouldn’t–god, I shouldn’t care so much, it’s been two years, I shouldn’t…” he shakes his head. “I don’t want to still be in love with him,” he mutters, still plaintive, too honest in the way Tyson can be, in the way that always makes Colin want to hug him. 

So he does, because Tyson looks like he needs a hug. He acts like it too, leaning into Colin’s arms. From over Tyson’s shoulder, Colin can see Gabe eying them, his brows furrowed. 

Finally, Tyson wiggles like he needs to be let go, because he loves physical contact until he doesn’t, and Colin does. Tyson’s eyes are a little red, but he looks okay. “Thanks,” he says to his hands, because there are other things Tyson can’t be honest about. 

Colin shrugs. “Whatever you need, bud.” 

“Dangerous,” Tyson replies, with a weak try at his usual flirtatious grin. It fades quickly. “I–I need to call Nate. I’ll just be…” he gestures at the door out to the patio. Colin nods, and hugs him again quickly before letting him go. Being good friends with Tyson means accepting that Nate will always be better friends with him, but it’s fine. Him going means Colin doesn’t feel entirely guilty chatting with other friends, though he keeps an eye on the door Tyson went out of, where he can still see him on the phone, and one on Gabe, to make sure he doesn’t go out after him. 

Half an hour later, Colin needs another drink, and figures he should probably make sure Tyson’s okay. Getting him more drunk is probably the wrong choice, but he still goes to the kitchen to mix him another drink. 

He’s gotten himself a beer, and is surveying the alcohol to decide what to make Tyson, when behind him comes a very snippy, “Tyson doesn’t like tequila.” 

“Hm?” Colin turns. Gabe is standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his slightly puffed-out chest. 

“Tyson doesn’t like tequila. He says he does but it gives him a headache. He’d rather have vodka.” 

Colin honestly doesn’t remember that, but he doesn’t have any reason to think Gabe is wrong, other than the way Gabe’s glaring. It’s rather a lot. “Okay,” Colin agrees, and reaches for the vodka. 

“He likes vodka cranberries,” Gabe informs him. He sounds smug, like knowing that when Colin doesn’t means he won. “Or vodka tonics in a pinch, but he’d rather the cranberries. Not a coke.” 

“Okay,” Colin says again. He mixes a vodka cranberry, Gabe eying him the whole time. 

“And why isn’t he here?” Gabe demands. “Did you just leave him alone? He doesn’t like being alone.” 

“I know that,” Colin chuckles. He thinks everyone knows that. 

Gabe clearly doesn’t take the chuckle well. “Then why aren’t you outside with him?” he demands again. 

“Because he’s on the phone with Nate,” Colin tells Gabe. He can’t imagine that friendship was different before. And Gabe’s lips do twitch. “I know better than to try to get in between that.” 

“Good.” Gabe’s still glaring. Colin waits. He doesn’t owe Gabe anything. And the longer Gabe’s in here, the longer he’s not outside making Tyson go pale.

It takes a few minutes, but finally, Gabe takes a step forward. They’re about the same height, which Gabe doesn’t seem pleased by; he’s got the air of someone who’s good at talking down to people. Colin keeps waiting. 

Gabe lets out a sharp, angry breath. “You better treat him well,” he spits at him. “Not just well. You better keep him–-incandescently happy.”

Colin raises his eyebrows. “I thought Tyson made it clear that you didn’t get a say in that,” he points out. 

“I don’t care. I know I don’t get a say, because I was an idiot two years ago and gave up the best thing–-” he cuts himself off, but Colin has the time to see his face now. To see the pain across it, pain he recognizes, from too many nights of Tyson staring into a glass, seeing someone else. “But I still–-if you fuck this up, if you fuck him up, I’m going to–-I know I missed my chance, and that’s-–it is what it is, but I’ll still fuck you up if he’s not happy.” 

Colin’s tolerance for dramatics has gone up since befriending Tyson, but it will never be that high. And this is stupid. 

“I’m not his boyfriend,” he says. Gabe freezes. A bright, painful looking hope flickers into his eyes. 

“You aren’t?” he asks, quiet. 

“No.” Colin shakes his head. “Now go say that to Tyson.” 

“What? But–-” They’re too old for the three years between them to feel like a lot, but Gabe looks young, in that moment. “I cant. I messed up, but I thought maybe–-but he’s moved on, and–” 

“Go say that to Tyson,” Colin repeats. He’s a practical sort of guy, he likes to think. Gabe clearly hasn’t gotten over Tyson. Tyson definitely never got over Gabe. Maybe Gabe messed up, but Tyson still needs to hear this. “You’ll never know until you try.” 

“But–” 

“Next time, he really will be dating someone,” Colin points out. “Do you want to hear that?” 

That hardens Gabe’s jaw. “No,” he decides, and stalks out, towards the patio. 

Colin considers not following, but he thinks he deserves to hear some of this. And if he made the wrong call, Tyson might need him as backup. 

Tyson’s still alone on the patio, though he’s off the phone, and is just looking out into the backyard. He turns when he hears the door open, though, and his face clearly doesn’t know what to do to see Gabe there. 

“What are you doing, Gabe?” he asks, and this time he sounds tired. 

“I wanted to talk.” Gabe takes a step out onto the patio. 

“I don’t think my  _boyfriend_  will like that,” Tyson retorts, glancing over Gabe’s shoulder at Colin. 

Colin can hear the smile in Gabe’s voice. “I know you’re not dating.” 

“You know, how? I mean,” Tyson corrects quickly. “We are, you’re wrong.” 

“He told me.” 

“Seriously?” Tyson’s attention is momentarily diverted. “You couldn’t even hold out an hour, Willy? Some kind of friend you are, I’m trading you in.” 

Colin knows Tyson’s empty threats, and shrugs. “It was a ridiculous plan anyway.” 

“Yeah, it’s me, what did you expect?” 

“Tyson.” Gabe’s voice is rough, and all of Tyson’s attention clearly disappears to look at Gabe, who’s halfway out on the patio now, a few feet from Tyson. “Tys, I–-can we talk?” 

“Why? You said everything you needed to say,” Tyson informs him. HIs hands are wrapped around the alternate wrists now, clenching hard. “You said it two years ago, when you just–-took that job without even thinking about me, without wanting to figure things out at all, and now you’re just back and so it clearly wasn’t the job it was just that I wasn’t enough and–”

“I was an idiot,” Gabe cuts Tyson off. He’s leaning in towards Tyson, like he’d be touching him if he could. “Two years ago I was an idiot and I thought that I should go back to Sweden because it was what I’d always planned to do and I couldn’t let a boy get in the way of that, and I shouldn’t have. I should have been flexible, but you know me.” He tries for a smile. “I’m not good at flexible. And by the time I realized why nothing in Sweden seemed as bright…you had blocked my number.“ 

Tyson swallows. “That’s what you do, when someone dumps you and you don’t want to risk pathetically drunk dialing them.” 

“Well it’s very inconvenient when someone wants to pathetically drunk dial you,” Gabe says, and Tyson shudders. Colin takes a drink. He should maybe go inside, but he’s still not 100% convinced this is ending well. 

“So, what,” Tyson asks, clearing his throat. He can’t quite look at Gabe. “You thought you’d come back and find me and we’d just–pick up where we left off, like you hadn’t dumped me?” 

“I–-not that simple, but I hoped.” Gabe takes a step forward. “Or we could find a way to move forward.” 

Tyson’s breath catches, and he looks down at his hands. Colin is considering breaking this up when, “You broke my heart, Gabe,” Tyson says, quiet and sincere and heartbreaking in itself. 

Gabe’s face looks like someone stabbed him. “I broke mine too, if that helps.” 

Tyson smiles, real but like it hurts. “It sort of does, honestly.” He breathes in, rough. “But I just...I don’t know what to do with this.” 

“Give me a chance?” Gabe takes another careful step forward. His voice is soft, almost gentle. “I know I don’t deserve it, but-–I want to try to.” 

Tyson is just staring, his eyes huge, his whole body tight. Everything’s right there on his face, like it always is, how he’s still so obviously in love with Gabe, all his self-preservation instincts. How much he wants and doesn’t trust, either Gabe or himself. 

His gaze flicks over Gabe’s shoulder, to Colin; it’s panicked and a question, a plea. Colin–-he’s not sure he trust Gabe, but he trusts that Tyson’s unhappy now and he’d be happier with Gabe. He trusts the ache in Gabe’s voice when he called Tyson the best thing that happened to him.  

And really, he trusts Tyson, even when Tyson doesn’t. 

He shrugs. Tyson makes a quick face, then looks back at Gabe, who’s still just waiting, and Colin can see when he starts to smile, his big unapologetic smile, and he sees Gabe light up. “Well, my boyfriend said it’s okay,” Tyson says, and Gabe spares a laugh before he jerks forward, catches himself. 

“Tys, can I–-” 

“We’re taking it slow,” Tyson warns, but then, “But first, if you aren’t kissing me in the next ten seconds I’m going to-–” he doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Gabe’s kissing him, all desperate, aching need that has Tyson clinging back. 

Of course Tyson would be this dramatic, Colin thinks, sparing them a smile before he goes back inside. Maybe this will decrease the average level of drama, if–-

“Where are you going?” Colin looks over in surprise. Tyson’s appeared next to him, looking messy and shamelessly kissed. Gabe, next to him, his hand firmly around Tyson’s waist, doesn’t look any better. 

“I thought you would be busy,” Colin points out, giving Tyson’s hair a pointed look. “I was going to–” 

“Nah, we’ve got a party to enjoy, right Gabe?” Tyson asks, adding the last bit pointedly. In a voice that is definitely not a whisper, he adds, “Taking it slow means he has to wait. So. Party.” 

“I’m not the one who enjoys waiting,” Gabe observes, a little biting, which makes Tyson snicker, and flush.

“Well, learn to. We’re going to enjoy this party with Willy and you are going to play nice, and I am going to get drunk and probably make out with you a little, and then you are going to drive me home and be a gentleman and drop me off.” 

“Oh I am?” Gabe asks, grinning. He’s looking at Tyson fondly enough that it makes Colin a little uncomfortable, honestly. 

“You are,” Tyson confirms. “I’m going to hold this over you  _forever_.” 

Gabe’s face lights up again, a sort of undisguised happiness that is as sweet as it is overwhelming to even catch the edges of it. Colin’s a little surprised that Tyson’s this into someone as full on as Gabe, but he guesses that maybe they’re well matched in that. “I can’t wait,” Gabe says, and Tyson makes a strangled noise. 

“Stop,” he mutters, then turns to Colin. “Okay. So I need a drink-–Gabe, that’s on you-–and then we need to find EJ because I have a lot of shit to give him about his Instagram.” 

It’s nice to see Tyson like this, so brightly happy. “Sounds good,” Colin says, and means it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Comment or come chat on tumblr at [ fanforthefics!](http://fanforthefics.tumblr.com/)


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